Everything I Need
by starsareFALLING
Summary: Quinn and Rachel begin to get better acquainted with one another, and it becomes increasingly difficult for the ex-cheerleader to keep her feelings for glee's leading lady a secret. "When it comes to Rachel, I'm about as subtle as a mountain ox." Minor overhaul. Chapter 13 up!
1. Deer In the Headlights

Disclaimer: Glee is not, has never been, and will never be my creation. The same goes for the characters within.

Synopsis: Over the summer (picking up after the end of last season), Quinn and Rachel begin to get better acquainted with one another, and it becomes increasingly difficult for the ex-cheerleader to keep her feelings for the glee club's leading lady a secret. The truth is eventually revealed, but what exactly does that mean for them—and their futures?

POV: Unless otherwise specified at the beginning of a particular chapter, it's pretty safe to say that it'll always be Quinn.

So, the scope of this story is pretty deep. I'm going to attempt to write it if not all the way, then most of the way through the girls' senior year at McKinley, including arguments with parents and impending performances and competitions. Everybody will make an appearance sooner or later. Ships will be pretty standard (i.e., Brittany and Santana, and Kurt and Blaine). I'm not quite sure how to incorporate Sue now that she's lost interest in destroying the New Directions, but she's too awesome not to write in, so she'll definitely be there somewhere. Other than that, I hope to keep you interested enough to follow. Enjoy.

And, of course, reviews are always welcome.

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><p><strong>Saturday, July 9th, 2011<strong>

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><p>Even in the summertime, I can't escape her. I see her all over town: at the mall, arm in arm with Kurt as they stroll from shop to shop; at the grocery store with her fathers, twirling and laughing between them, seeming to dance her way down the aisles; in the library; at the post office; at the movies, picking delicately at her popcorn; on the streets and the interstate, tucked safely into the passenger seat—because she's terrified of driving—her father at the wheel as she bounces giddily beside him, her lips always moving and forming the words to a song that I can never hear.<p>

She's everywhere. Even at home, in the privacy of my own room, where I should be safe in my solitary confinement and wholly sequestered, obstructed from seeing her, I'm not, because I can never get her off of my mind. Not a single thought passes without touching the ghostly resonance of her that lives in my daydreams and fantasies.

She checks in on everything.

When I'm picking out clothes—_What would Rachel think of this? _

Staring at the radio—_I wonder if Rachel knows this song. _

Laying in bed late at night, wide awake, catching a glimpse of her face in everything I see—_Is she thinking of me?_

I drive myself crazy. As much as I try to keep her out of my thoughts, it never works. Sometimes I think that, by now, having lived with these thoughts for so long, I've deluded myself into believing that the Rachel in my head is an extension of the real one, a kind of astral projection, a piece of her heart that she's given me to keep inside mine at all times. Even though Rachel would probably be sweet enough to do that if I were anyone else in the world, I'm me, and for innumerable reasons, I'm not on the list of people Rachel Berry would give a piece of herself away to. Not the real one, anyway.

Sometimes these two Rachels collide, and it's never pretty. It usually ends with an unwavering bout of humiliation and a hasty exit. I'll say something sweet to the Rachel in my mind, only to be mortified when I realize that I've spoken out loud, standing face to face with the real one. I'll expect the real Rachel to say or do something that the Rachel in my head would say or do, and then die a little inside when she doesn't.

I accidentally told her she was beautiful once, and I couldn't look at her for a week.

These moments have been happening more and more frequently. I used to be good at differentiating, keeping them separate, but the longer this goes on, the more the two of them are blurring into one, melding together. It's getting harder and harder to discern which Rachel I'm talking to. My fantasy Rachel will sometimes deny me; the real Rachel will sometimes say things that I can't rationally explain—and I'm slowly losing my mind. It's gotten to the point where I can't even see her—either of her—without making a complete fool of myself.

So, when my mother drags me into the only cafe in Lima that serves smoothies and I notice her waiting in line, my first instinct is to drop to the floor behind the family of five to my right and hide. My conscious brain—dominated by flustered apprehension, I've come to realize—would rather dig through the linoleum floor than risk the consequences of facing her. Despite the threat, there is still a part of me that actively and desperately seeks contact. My subconscious mind never wants to let her out of my sight.

But today, even though she's so breathtakingly beautiful—with her hair down, loose around her face, but tamed with a simple band; her arms and shoulders bare in a summertime cami; bronze legs stretching for miles beneath her playful cotton skirt with its ruffled pockets and tiered hem—that I can't take my eyes off of her, my conscious mind wins out. My mother is here, right next to me, and I can't afford to humiliate myself in front of her. The only way to avoid the embarrassment that is guaranteed to occur is to leave as quickly as possible.

Feeling like a child, I tug my mother's sleeve. My heart is in my throat. "It's so busy in here today," I complain. I'm grasping at straws, appealing to her congenital impatience. "Why don't we go to Breadstix instead?"

Though I've been trying to keep my voice low due to the fact that Rachel's ears are insanely sensitive, my mother doesn't get the hint. She laughs, strangely good-natured, given the situation. She would usually be halfway back to the car by now. "Quinn, we've got all day to go shopping," she says, simultaneously chiding and assuring. "Your father will be late tonight. Calm down."

I'm not sure if she tries to tell me anything else, suddenly deafened by the heartbeat pounding in my ears.

At the mention of my name, even from ten feet away, Rachel's demeanor perceptively shifts. She turns her head in my direction without a hint of hesitation or uncertainty, instinctively, almost like she can feel me here. Her dulcet eyes—warm, in a way that always reminds me of hot cocoa—are searching, scanning the faces behind her with that ever-present intensity of hers, and I'm tempted to grab my mother by her ridiculously impeccable suit jacket and use her as a human shield to hide myself. But when Rachel's eyes settle on mine, and her lips stretch into a smile, I melt. I'm reduced to the human embodiment of Jell-O.

Even as the proverbial deer in the headlights, I can't help but smile back at her, and when she waves, I raise my hand to return it. I am a puppet on strings, and burning, unrequited love is my puppet master.

Despite the fact that she's the next to be called up to order and there are at least three groups of people between us in line, Rachel turns back, politely encouraging the others to go ahead of her, and crosses the cafe, which suddenly seems entirely too small. I concentrate on trying to keep myself upright as she reaches me.

"Hey, Quinn," she says. Her smile is radiant. "Fancy meeting you here."

In actuality, the chances of meeting someone _anywhere_ in Lima are extremely high, as we've found out personally on numerous occasions, but the way she says it is the most adorable thing ever.

"Small world," I reply. I sound like a strangled canary.

Thankfully, Rachel doesn't comment on it, and her attention turns to my mother, who, by an iniquitous twist of fate that I'm still not sure how to explain or rationalize, she has met once before.

On my way home from Santana's right after the start of summer vacation, I found Rachel in my front yard, knee-deep in planting soil, helping my mother assemble and post a miniature fence in the garden. To say I was speechless would be a monumental understatement of my surprise. I was frozen—and when she peered up at me against the luster of the midday sunlight with an innocent smile, commenting that she was "deceptively good with her hands," I almost died.

"Hello, Mrs. Fabray," Rachel says. She offers another smile, polite, as always, but I convince myself that it isn't as bright or as sincere as the one she gave to me. "It's nice to see you again."

My mother returns the expression. "Likewise, dear. How have you been?"

I don't hear Rachel's answer.

Before I had ever entertained the idea of Rachel and my mother sharing the same atmosphere, let alone the same room, I had convinced myself that they would never be able to get along. They aren't just polar opposites—they are stellar, galactic, universal opposites. Rachel has never been the type to keep her emotions or convictions to herself, while my mother prefers everything to be left unsaid. Rachel is strong-willed and hardheaded, and even though it's adorable to me, my mother isn't the type to tolerate challenges. It's a wonder that the quandary underlying this situation hasn't been exposed yet, but as long as things remain reasonable and I'm not forbidden to see Rachel, I'm willing to deal with the peculiarity of it all.

Though I will admit that, right now, a small part of me wishes that my mother would disappear.

While I'm staring at the dimples in the corners of Rachel's smile, watching her lips move and thinking vaguely that the microscopic mite of the world devoted to my life has somehow been thrust into an alternate universe, my mother takes the opportunity to knock me off my metaphorical feet.

"Quinn and I were just about to sit down for lunch," my mother informs the girl of my dreams. "Would you like to join us?"

Everything grinds to a screeching halt.

I look incredulously to the woman who brought me into this world, the picture of composed nonchalance beside me.

_Is this really happening?_

The torn affliction raging inside of me must be obvious; Rachel notices, catching my eye, and hesitation washes across her face. My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach like an anvil, leaden with guilt. I could smack myself. _Nice one, idiot. _

I would give anything for her to say yes, to stay so that I can hold onto her—the _real_ her—for just a moment longer, but she doesn't know that. She has no idea how easily she affects me, or how terrified I am of humiliating myself—especially in front of my ultra-Christian, no-nonsense mother. As abstruse as they are, she couldn't possibly know the origins of my distress, and she's misinterpreting everything because of it. She thinks that I don't want her to stay.

Her smile remains visible out of forced courtesy, but its strength fades. She looks from me to my mother, a meek apology in her eyes. "Oh, well, I wouldn't want to intrude…"

It feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the atmosphere.

I reach for her before I can stop myself. I grasp her wrist. "Stay. Please."

I'm desperate, and it's obvious. When it comes to Rachel, I'm about as subtle as a mountain ox.

I pray that my mother doesn't notice.

Indecision flickers across Rachel's face, lingering for a moment. She searches my eyes. _Please, Rachel. Please, stay. _I think, somehow, miraculously, she hears me, because her uncertainty dissipates, and a fraction of her usual effervescence returns. The vise grip on my heart releases. I feel like I can breathe.

"Okay," she agrees, and her eyes are bright, felicitous. Her dimples wink back into existence.

My newfound breath is effectively stolen. She's so beautiful that it hurts sometimes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my mother moving purposefully for the counter, but the implications are fuzzy. I have no idea whether the line has gone down or if she's simply going to get a better look at the menu.

I decide that it doesn't matter, and I don't follow her, immobilized by a lingering fixation on Rachel's lips. Intuitively aware that I don't have any intention of moving on my own, Rachel turns her hand, which is still held captive by my own, and uses the contact to her advantage, tugging me forward with her as she approaches the counter.

When we reach my mother, I drop my hand. _Kill me now._ My face burns; Rachel smiles.

I'm assuming that my mother has already ordered for herself, because she turns to the two of us. "What will you have, girls?" She trains her eye on Rachel. "My treat."

I mumble something about strawberries and kiwis, and Rachel thanks my mother for the offer and orders a Sunset Sunrise, which I have never even heard of before. I think I hear her say something about peaches, but I'm staring at her lips again.

Waiting for the smoothies to be made, the silence is patient. The hushed voices of other people filter in and out of coherence, the breath of the moment, the natural presence of background noise. I stare at Rachel and she pretends not to notice; my mother checks her watch, oblivious. My face has just started to cool down, when the woman who gave me life threatens to take it away for the second time.

"Do you have any plans this afternoon, Rachel?" she asks. All internal functions seize. "Quinn and I are going to the mall after lunch." _Don't do it, Mom. _"You should come with us. I'm sure Quinn would love to have you."

My cheeks are suddenly on fire. _Did you really have to use those words?_

Rachel looks to me for confirmation, but I've gone mute. My throat is dry. If I say anything, I'll lose it. I'll end up saying to the real Rachel what I would say to the Rachel in my head"Yes, Rachel, I would love to have you—in my lap, in my bed, in the shower, in the pool, on a table, on the floor…" And I don't think it'll go over very well, so I settle for nodding.

I try to smile to reassure her, but I can feel it waver.

My palms are sweaty. _Yes, Rachel, I'd love to have you_.

She smiles in return, innocent and blissfully ignorant. "I'd love to, Mrs. Fabray," she says. "Thank you."

There was a point in time when her manners used to annoy me, but now they pluck at my heartstrings just as intensely as any other facet of her personality. Somewhat consequently, imaginary Rachel has taken the role of my personal French maid more than once, polite and submissive and always conscious of her manners—until I make her forget them.

_Oh, God. Stop. I need to stop thinking like this or I'm going to explode._

Finally, a teenage girl behind the counter calls my mother's name and hands us our smoothies.

I've never been so glad for the neutral indifference of a Styrofoam cup in my life.

My mother leads the way to the only available table left in the little cafe, a booth at the front window vacated only a couple of minutes ago. She settles herself on one side, placing her purse delicately beside her. Even though three other people could fit comfortably next to her, she remains at the very end, effectively occupying the whole bench. Rachel notices this as she sits on the opposite side, and she slides in further along her own bench, making room for me to sit next to her.

I stare blankly at the patch of viridian pleather. She offers me an encouraging smile, and yet, I'm frozen.

Sitting next to her, after thinking the thoughts I've been thinking, I don't know if I'll be able to control myself. So close to her, _touching_ her, even on accident, might actually kill me. But I force myself to move, and I try to make it seem natural. If I sit too close, it might seem like I'm coming on to her; if I cling to the very edge of the seat and avoid every inch of her exposed skin, it will be obvious that I'm trying to keep my distance—even to my mother. I settle for middle ground, but even there, where I should be safely ensconced in my own personal space, her knee touches mine and her elbow brushes my arm.

Thoughts of imaginary Rachel begin to seep into my mind.

As soon as I'm settled, smiling briefly at the real Rachel to thank her, my mother stands.

I gape at her. _You couldn't have done that before I sat down? _

Her eyes are fixed intently on her cell phone, and it takes me a second, but I realize that I know this look: her 'emergency' face.

"I'm sorry, girls," she says, tucking the phone back into her purse. She doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "I've got to run. A client is having a meltdown, apparently, and I've been called in to mediate."

It hits me then that she's going to bail on us, and my heart stops.

_What about **me**? What about **my** meltdown?_

She's leaving.

I'll be alone with Rachel.

_I'm not ready for this._

My mother digs around in her purse without sparing me a glance. "Don't you wait around for me though. You two go on to the mall and have fun." She pulls several bills from her pocketbook and hands them to me. I take the money with nerveless fingers. "I'll call you later, Quinny," she says, and when she bends down to kiss the top of my head, I feel like a child.

_Thanks a lot, Mom. _

"It was nice to see you, Rachel."

"Thank you for lunch, Mrs. Fabray," Rachel replies.

The bell above the door jingles and then my mother is gone.

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><p>Note: This chapter was originally planned to be more than twice as long. To keep a modicum of consistency between this chapter and future chapters, I decided to split the original into two parts. Therefore, the next chapter will continue in the current setting: a nameless cafe that sells smoothies. But we all know where they really are.<p>

Cue feedback! (Seriously. If you don't review, I might cry.)


	2. Must Be Dreaming

Sorry about the delay. Very, very busy week. I got it done though, and that's what matters. Hope everybody enjoys chapter two! (Special thanks to **smashintoyou** for being the first to review chapter one.)

Remember, this picks up directly where the first part left off. Quinn's mother has just abandoned our favorite duo.

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><p><strong>Saturday, July 9th, 2011<strong>

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><p>I stare steadily ahead. The heat of Rachel's body is like a bonfire at my side. I'm not prepared to face her. Without my mother here to censor me, there will be nothing to ground me, to keep me coherent, to remind me that this is real, not a fantasy. Rachel and I have never been this close before, alone, and now that we're here, I have no idea what to do. I got what I wanted, but I'm terrified.<p>

I silently curse my mother. It's so like her to get me into this and then abandon me.

Rachel waits patiently for me to look at her. She doesn't push or speak, content to simply sit beside me—and I know that she can see right through me. Without my mother acting as a buffer, I'm naked. I can't hide from her.

It's a struggle to bring my eyes to her face, knowing that I'll lose myself if I'm not careful. I have to force myself to breathe, and just as I expected, once our eyes have met, I can't turn away. The gray Lima sunlight sets on her shoulders, framing her face. I try to swallow against the nervousness building in my chest. _You're so beautiful, Rachel._

_Say something,_ I command myself. _Don't just stare at her. Say something!_

I try to formulate coherent words, but she beats me to it.

"I think your mom just ditched us," she says, and she laughs at the absurdity.

Despite the uneasy nausea in my stomach, I can't help smiling back at her. It's a thoughtless action, an instinctual habit.

"She does that," I admit—and I hope it doesn't sound as pathetic to her as it suddenly does to me.

If it does, she doesn't show it. She only grins, settling further into her seat, sinking back into the cushioned booth. Her eyes are soft and indecipherable. I try not to read too far into her complacency, attributing everything to the fact that my stiff, analytical mother has magically disappeared, but I wonder—against my better judgment—if there isn't another reason for it.

When I find my eyes drifting to Rachel's lips, my thoughts are quickly extinguished, and I'm reminded why I am always so afraid of lapsing into silence. She's magnetizing, like gravity, drawing me to her. I need her to talk; I need something else to focus on. She'll call me out if she realizes that I'm not paying attention to what she's saying, and I need the threat to pull myself together. The silence is dangerous. I don't know what I'll end up saying or doing if she doesn't distract me.

She doesn't seem in a rush to speak, but she drops her eyes, and the spell she has on me is momentarily broken. _Thank God._

For a moment, I feel safe, but when she lifts her smoothie from the table, the cherry red straw settling between her parted lips, every nerve in my body comes alive, pulsing in time with the rhythm of her throat as she drinks.

This is infinitely worse than silence.

I swallow thickly, like trying to force down a bowling ball, and demand myself to look away. I concentrate on trying to breathe without attracting her attention and stare resolutely at my own smoothie, sitting untouched in front of me. If I don't get away from Rachel soon, one of two things will happen, and neither are good. I'll either drive myself insane trying to control myself, or I'll lose control of myself completely and jump her in the nearest secluded area—the nearest area that seems even moderately obscure. I reach out and grip the Styrofoam cup in front of me with a shaky hand, pulling it toward me and sucking the smoothie down desperately, heedless of the temperature. I'm immediately rewarded with a brain-freeze, but it's a welcome distraction.

Suddenly, Rachel laughs, and, internally, I cringe. _What did I do?_

I shift my eyes in her direction, unable to curb my curiosity.

"I just remembered that this is the first place I ever saw you," she says.

I blink at her dumbly. As far as I know, the first time I met Rachel was in ninth grade, in the hallway before lunch. I can remember that instant with agonizing clarity. She had bumped into me on accident, too focused on her sheet music to notice me at first, and, when we collided and all of her things had spilled onto the ground, because I was so high on the newfound power I had gained at McKinley, I had insulted her and laughed. I had mocked her navy and evergreen argyle; I had ridiculed her pleated skirt. The first time I met her, I saw tears well in her eyes.

I force myself to keep the guilt at bay. I can't deal with that right now. _Not now. Please, not now._

The lingering confusion must be apparent on my face, because she continues without me asking her to.

"The summer before ninth grade," she explains. I'm exponentially relieved that she's talking; it helps me focus on something other than my own thoughts. "You were sitting up at the bar with your dad, and you were wearing a T-shirt from that year's Broadway production of _Wicked_." She laughs again, and I melt into her dark, umber eyes. "I was so jealous."

I don't particularly remember coming here with my father, but I know the shirt she's talking about. My father had taken me to see _Wicked_ as a reward for good grades in my last year of middle school. After the show, a vendor outside on the corner was selling shirts and jackets and hats and everything _Wicked_ I could've imagined, and I begged my father for a shirt the entire fifteen minutes we were waiting for the taxi. Right before we left, he finally stopped at the vendor. It has always been one of my favorite shirts, even though I could never wear it to school. I was too cool for musicals, and I grew out of it once I hit my growth spurt in the middle of ninth grade. It fits other than the fact that it's too short, barely reaching past my belly button. I still wear it to sleep sometimes, but I don't think I could ever admit that out loud—especially to her.

Unable to remember much of anything from the day we were both apparently here before, I'm not sure how I should respond. I search Rachel's eyes for the answer she's looking for, but, like always, she meets my gaze without any expectations.

Guiltily, I finally settle for saying, "I don't think I saw you…"

Rachel shrugs, unbothered. "It's okay. I didn't expect you to."

_Of course you don't, Rachel. You don't expect anything from me._

"I honestly don't remember that day," I admit.

"Even if you did, I'm pretty sure I was hiding behind my dad."

She laughs and her face colors a gorgeous shade of pink. She's embarrassed—a particular facet of beautiful that doesn't often show itself where Rachel is concerned—and I am immediately intrigued. I want to know what makes her blush like that.

Searching her words for a hint, I pause.

_She couldn't mean—?_

"Hiding from me?" I ask.

She nods, and I swear I can see her blush grow deeper, spreading farther.

The strength to refrain is nowhere to be found. "Why?"

She drops her eyes briefly, then looks to the window, as if her reflection holds the words she's looking for.

"I'd just never seen someone so pretty."

My heart stops beating. _What?_

She turns back to me, finding my eyes. "You looked so mature for your age. So… _cool_, with your capris and your shirt twisted up into a knot, like all the popular girls." She grins, shaking her head. "And there I was, this minuscule dwarf of a thing in my saddle shoes and argyle and plaid—pretty much exactly the same as I am now," she adds wryly.

I can't help thinking that, in her summertime attire of solid hues and patterned lace, she looks nothing like the girl she describes.

Abruptly, the color lighting her cheeks begins to creep down her neck. My eyes follow the spreading warmth, riveted, but I snap back to attention before I lose myself completely. I find my way back to her face and realize that she's having a hard time holding my gaze. I've never seen her so shy. _Is this really happening right now?_

"I remember thinking you were a model."

My immediate response is the desire to laugh, but I'm afraid it'll offend her, so I bite it back.

I search her eyes, though the honesty in them is apparent. "Seriously?"

She looks down, her face pinching with embarrassment. "I was young and naïve," she complains. "I had no idea what I was thinking. But can you blame me?" She holds my gaze, and though she doesn't intentionally establish her intensity, it pours into me in a rush, the most thrilling warmth. She has no idea how captivating she is. She's lost sight of herself, because, for some reason, she's focused on me. "You're beautiful, Quinn," she says. "You were then and you are now—even more so."

I try to fight it, but my heart ignores my warning, pounding loudly in my chest. _She's just being nice_, I tell myself. She's trying to boost my fragile self-esteem, trying to be a good friend_. Forget it. She doesn't mean it that way._

Reprimanding myself is ineffective; I struggle to find my voice. "Thanks, Rachel."

Before I sink even deeper into her eyes, I turn my gaze downward, studying the Styrofoam cup clutched in my hand.

Rachel bumps my shoulder with her own. "Can I tell you a secret?"

I raise my head to look at her, my nerves setting off like rapid-fire rockets when the bare skin of her arm touches mine.

She doesn't wait for me to answer her verbally. "It's cute when you get shy," she says, eyes like molten chocolate pinning me to the spot, "but you don't have to hide from me." My chemical structure gives way, spilling me into a thousand and one solitary atoms. I am weightless and ethereal; I'm convinced that I am delusional. "I know that there is a lot more to you that I haven't discovered yet—and it might take me a while, so you'll have to be patient—but I'm getting there."

_Please, God, if this is a dream, don't ever let me wake up. _

"I think I already know more than you realize."

The color drains from my face. Abruptly, I do want to wake up. I panic. Adrenaline condenses into energy in my limbs, preparing me for an imminent escape. _Does she know? Have I really been as obvious as I thought? Is all of this just a prelude to her pity, where she tells me that she's flattered but not interested?_ If it is, I think I'll die.

"For what it's worth," she says, and I'm hanging desperately on every word that passes her lips, silently begging for mercy, "I think you're amazing."

Everything stops.

_Am I dreaming?_

Is this a virtual representation of my fantasy land, where the Rachel in my head is always waiting for me?

_Is any of this real?_

Rachel reaches for my hand, and a surge of white-hot electricity breaks me free of my paralysis.

My heart is a battering ram; my chest is caving in.

She just smiles. "So don't try to hide," she says. "I'll find you eventually."

I can only nod in response. I don't trust my voice.

What in the world would I say, even if I could?

She holds my gaze, her smile fixed and permanent. Our polar magnetism pulls me toward her tenfold, and I grasp desperately for a distraction.

"How's your smoothie?" My voice is high and rushed.

She laughs. She hasn't touched her smoothie for nearly five minutes, and it's a little ridiculous to ask her about it all of the sudden. I flush, but she's merciful, as she always is, and she doesn't comment on my blatant attempt to change the subject. She draws her hand back from my arm, settling it in her lap. Her warmth remains, a tangible remnant.

"It's good," she says. A tease lingers on her lips, entirely too exciting for me to handle; imaginary Rachel wears that smile frequently. She lifts her cup from the table and tilts it in my direction. "Want to try it?"

The only thoughts circulating through my brain revolve around the fact that that straw has been in Rachel's mouth. Her lips have been on that straw. Though, somehow, I manage to ask, "What's in it?"

She peers down into the pulverized fruit thoughtfully, as if she can actually see the individual components she names. "Strawberries, oranges, and pineapple, and I always ask them to add peaches." She glows with a genuine joy that I wasn't prepared for. "It's my favorite thing in the whole world," she admits, laughing. "It's pretty much me in a cup."

_And you're asking me to taste it? Just kill me now, Rachel._

I swallow my nerves as she tilts the cup back in my direction. Before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I lean forward and place my lips tentatively on the straw. The second the flavor hits my tongue, I melt.

God, she tastes amazing.

I'm not sure, but I think I groaned out loud. I pull back hastily and exaggerate a follow-up. "Wow," I rasp—unintentionally. "That's…" I can't find the right word to describe it. _Heavenly?_ I'm too embarrassed to say it. "Wow."

"I know," she says. I can't help but notice that her one of her dimples is hiding, the other readily visible in the corner of her satisfied smirk. It almost seems to say: I told you so. She leans toward me a fraction of an inch. "What about you? What's your flavor?" She laughs, and I wonder briefly if she's thinking of the song she unintentionally quoted.

I drop my eyes to the cup in my hand. While Rachel's smoothie was a shade most closely resembling a succulent peach mingled with the red tones of strawberries, the contents of my cup are a pale, bland pink, not much to look at—much the same way I feel when I compare myself to her. I'm a popular choice, run of the mill, and she's an exotic anomaly, beautiful, unique, and completely intoxicating.

She's still waiting patiently for my answer.

I turn the cup in my hands. "Strawberry kiwi," I mumble finally.

Rachel nods with measured acknowledgment. "Can I tell you another secret?"

_You can tell me anything you want to, Rachel._

She waits until I meet her eyes before she continues"I've never tasted a kiwi before."

The urge to clear my throat rises. This conversation is too ironically symbolic, and not a word of it is lost on me.

"Really?" I ask her, pushing the thought away. For some reason, the notion at hand is surprising.

"When I was little, I was afraid of them." She laughs openly at her childhood self, and I can't help it; despite the numerous complications of my inadequacy complex and neuroticism, I laugh too. "It's true," she insists. "They freaked me out. I was a highly logical child, and it just didn't seem natural for a fruit to have fur." Her laughter is light and medicinal, melodic when it mingles with mine. "I wouldn't touch them. I barely let my dads bring them into the house. They were kept in the bottom drawer and they didn't come out until my dads ate them or threw them away."

She shifts in the booth next to me, turning to see me more directly, her knee more firmly pressed against my own, but I've been captured by her indiscriminate happiness, and I don't allow myself to register the distraction.

"I think I've gotten a little better about it now," she says. "I can tolerate seeing them in the refrigerator, at least. I still haven't had the nerve to taste one though."

I offer her my cup. "Do you want to try it?" I ask. Half of me expects her to say no, so when a brief flicker of hesitation passes across her face, I'm not surprised. But, for some reason, I keep talking. "There's no fur, I promise."

_I think I just made a joke…_

Rachel laughs then—my joke apparently successful—and takes a breath. "If I was by myself, I wouldn't even consider it," she says, "but you make me feel braver than I really am." She nods decisively. "Okay."

While I'm pondering the meaning behind her words, she leans forward to sip from the cup in my hand, which hums faintly in response as she draws on the straw and allows the foreign flavor to grace her tongue. Pins and needles pinball up my arm and resonate throughout my entire body. The collective experience is somewhat maddening. This is the first time I can recall ever wanting to be an inanimate plastic straw—specifically, the one that Rachel Berry's lips are currently occupied with.

Terror strikes me. _What if she doesn't like it? _Symbolically, that would be too much to bear.

After a moment, she pulls away. She settles her shoulder against the cushion at our backs, bearing an expression of intense concentration. Her mouth is closed, but I can tell by the subtle working of her jaw that she's testing the lingering remnants of the flavor on her tongue. Her eyes search the ceiling before falling to meet mine. She laughs.

"I couldn't really taste it," she admits.

I laugh with her instinctually. Her happiness is infectious.

_At least she didn't hate it._

"It's always more strawberry than kiwi," I tell her.

"Kind of like you."

My laughter dies abruptly, washed away by curiosity. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs, a secret, enigmatic smile on her lips.

I could conjure a thousand and one fantasies with that look.

"Mostly strawberry, a little bit of kiwi," she says.

The intensity of my desire to know what she's talking about pushes through my straying thoughts, steadying my voice. "Would you care to elaborate on that?"

Her grin never wavers as she shakes her head. "That's all you're getting."

Imaginary Rachel said that to me once. It turned out, eventually, that she was lying.

This Rachel, however, seems to be serious. I grasp wildly for a comprehension that eludes me, reduced to slouching back against the booth, utterly lost. _What in the world does that mean—'mostly strawberry, a little bit of kiwi'?_

She bounces once in her seat before settling again, inwardly pleased about a secret I am not allowed to share. "So, what do you need to get from the mall?" she asks. Even though she's changed the subject, teasing secrecy lingers in her eyes.

For the first time today, I don't want to answer her; my response will likely lead us down a path that I am desperate to avoid.

I had convinced my mother earlier this morning to take me to the mall so I could pick out a new swimsuit for the party she's throwing next weekend, the locale of which is our pool, of all places—Hawaiian theme, of course—but the last thing I need is to get stuck modeling the potential options for Rachel—or even worse, having her model them for me.

Rachel in a bikini is almost too much to envision.

I clear my throat. "My parents are throwing a party next weekend. I was going to look for an outfit to match the theme."

It's not exactly a lie. A bathing suit is an outfit, kind of.

"What kind of theme could you possibly not already have an outfit to match?"

I know immediately that I've trapped myself. While I'm not opposed to withholding or bending the truth, I can't outright lie to her. I don't have it in me. Even if I did, she would know, and she would find her way to the truth eventually.

"Hawaiian," I admit.

Her eyes light up. "Grass skirt then," she decides. "A flower for your hair, a couple of leis—green, of course, to bring out your eyes—a new bikini."

Just hearing her say the word is enough to make me shiver.

There is an entire list of words that the real Rachel should never say to me.

"Yeah," I croak. "That's the plan."

Rachel's attention has been drawn back to the utter ambrosia that is her smoothie. While I'm contemplating begging her for another taste, she plays idly with the straw. "I've been thinking about looking for a new bathing suit too," she says.

_Why am I not surprised?_

"I think the last time I bought one was the summer I first saw you." She laughs, shaking her head at herself. "If you can't tell, I haven't grown much since then. Anywhere."

Her last comment causes my eyes to widen. I cannot believe she just brought up something like _that_.

And then I realize that this is all headed exactly where I feared and desperately wished it wasn't. I'm going to end up melting and plastered to a greasy polycarbonate waiting chair in some department store with Rachel twirling and dancing and baring her body, dipped in all flavors and shades of bikinis, in front me. I'll mutter unintelligible responses when she asks me my opinion and I'll drown in my fantasies of ripping each and every one of them away.

"Would you mind if I looked for one too?"

Her eyes are patient and unassuming, without any hidden intentions.

_Say yes! Do not let her come with you! If you see her in that bikini…_

I feel like the scum of the earth for thinking so inappropriately of her.

_Don't do it, Quinn. Don't do it._

My voice pitches when I try to assure her that it's okay. "Not at all."

_I just don't know how much longer I'll be able to resist you._

* * *

><p>Note: Rachel's smoothie is based on the Sunrise Sunset from Tropical Smoothie. I switched the words intentionally.<p>

Note: I have no idea whether or not they actually sell T-shirts for performances of _Wicked_. It just seemed to fit.

Note: Their friendship seems starkly intimate, no? Well, we've missed a big portion of the true beginning, by this time. (The first random meetings and whatnot.) Perhaps to be remedied with a prequel one day, if I ever get around to it.

Note: In retrospect, Quinn has an even dirtier mind than I realized while I was writing it.

To the mall, anyone? Cover charge: one review per person. Ha!


	3. Right Where You Want Me

Okay, first of all **— smashintoyou **and **DirtyPiratePimp**, you guys are _awesome_. Just had to say that. :D

Next, can I just say _wow_? The response to this fic has been absolutely amazing. Thank you so much to everybody who has reviewed so far, and to those who have added it to their favorites. I'm so thrilled right now.]

Before we move on, I have to warn you ahead of time. To save Quinn some humiliation and also to get the story moving along faster, the bikini scene, as so many of you have been dying to read, is told past-tense, written the way Quinn remembers it. It was definitely a big deal, but what happens later on is even bigger, in the grand scheme of things, so please, please, please, please forgive me. Even though it's a recollection, I tried to make it as detailed as I could. I hope it's not too disappointing!

I know, I know! "Get on with it!" Lol. Without further ado, I give you: the mall scene.

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><p><strong>Saturday, July 9th, 2011<strong>

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><p>When the light hits Rachel's eyes just right, sometimes I can see the world in them. There is a galaxy of opportunities, a world of chances, a never-ending well of possibilities waiting for me—and I'd give anything to delve into them, to experience them all. I'd willingly lose myself just to know for an instant what it's like to be hers, to belong to her, but I always let the moments pass. As frequent as they are, I'm too afraid to take them, terrified of letting go.<p>

Even though I wish I could, I can't find the courage to put my heart, and, by extension, myself on the line. There are so many mistakes I could make. I could say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, upset her, hurt her, make her hate me… I could make a fool of myself. I could ruin everything before it even has a chance to start. Conversely, on the other hand, there are so many steps forward I could take. I could say the _right_ thing, do the _right_ thing, make her smile, make her laugh, make her fall in love… I could show her how much I care about her. I could show her that there isn't anyone else in the world who would love her more than I would.

There are so many opportunities, yet the ends of the means are unclear, and I'm too afraid to make a move because there's no way of knowing what the repercussions are going to be. I want to push forward, yet, at the same time, I don't want to move at all—and this dichotomy is driving me absolutely insane.

When I should be making her laugh, making her smile, I'm frozen, immobile, and useless. I'm horrifyingly neutral. There's a war raging in my heart, and even though I should be fighting the good fight, giving it all I've got, I'm Switzerland.

_I'm friggin' Switzerland._

I realize this as we're sitting across from each other in the food court. A small, circular table divides us, vacant but for my listless hands. I'm staring at her again, and she's doing a good job of pretending not to notice, concentrating on the conversation she's having with her father over the phone. Every now and then, her eyes meet mine from across the table, her lips twitching in the barest whisper of a smile, and though I've realized that I might as well be an invertebrate due to the backbone I'm lacking, each time she looks at me, I'm a little less concerned with the fact that I'm ridiculously indecisive. Each time she looks at me, I feel a little more okay with just being here, and it doesn't feel like I have to do anything at all.

Despite the fact that her attention is directed elsewhere, I'm content. I use her distraction to my advantage. I watch her, studying the movement of her lips, the expressions that cross her face. I note the relaxed arch of her brow, the smooth curve of her jaw, the subtle intensity of her eyes. Without my raging hormones burring my vision, I can finally take the time to appreciate how beautiful she is—but the suppression of my sex drive, which is a nearly impossible feat, is only a recent development.

I barely survived the past two hours.

As I'd expected, prayed for, and desperately hoped against all at once, once we got to the mall, Rachel insisted that she try on nearly every bathing suit in the store. As she sorted diligently through what seemed like an endless stretch of racks devoted to swimwear, I trailed along behind her, counting by threes in an effort to distract myself, trying to suppress my licentious interest in the bathing suits that she chose. There were so many different cuts and styles, some of them so scant and painfully evocative that I found it hard to breathe just _imagining_ them. Even strung innocently on the hanger, they made for plenty of potential material for my fantasies of imaginary Rachel.

The goal had been to search for our own bathing suits simultaneously, but I was far too occupied trying to kill my libido to look for my own. Eventually, she commented on my distinct lack of possibles, and I could only mumble incoherently in response. Even now, I'm still not sure what exactly I said to her, but it made her laugh, and she grabbed my wrist, even around the mountain of nylon and lycra in her arms, and led me back to the fitting rooms. Once I saw where we were headed, I could barely get my legs to move. She pulled me along behind her until she disappeared into the very last stall—what she thought would be the most secluded, to keep anybody else but me from catching a glimpse of her in such revealing attire—calling back over her shoulder that if she found one that she liked, I would have to help her decide.

I all but collapsed into the chair outside the door, my entire body seeming to break down into quivering subatomic particles. Waiting outside, I'd never felt more anxious in my life, and I prayed—literally _prayed_—that she wouldn't like any of them enough to need a second opinion.

Apparently, God wasn't listening.

"I really like this one, Quinn," she said through the door a couple minutes later. "What do you think?"

When she stepped out of the stall, I thought I was going to swallow my own tongue.

Even imaginary Rachel wasn't so irrefutably flawless.

I'd never seen an article of clothing so perfectly molded to a human body—and, worse, I'd never had to physically hold onto an inanimate object so tightly that my hands hurt to keep myself away from it.

The bikini was white, but painted liberally with varying sizes of hot pink and fuchsia hibiscus flowers. Laid against the bronze of her skin, I'd never loved those colors so much. Slouched in my seat the way I was, practically comatose, my eyes were level with the lower half of her body, and the first thing I noticed explicitly were the ties at both sides of her waist, the knotted strings overlaying the smooth protrusions of her hipbones—and from that moment forward, I could only stare, wide-eyed, at the whole of her body, without focusing on anything in particular, because too much attention to a specific area would have killed me.

Thankfully, Rachel didn't comment on my reaction.

She spun once, studying herself in the mirror to my left, before turning back to me. Her face had flushed just the slightest hint of pink, and she toyed with the extraordinarily erogenous ties at her hips. "Do you like it?"

I couldn't believe she honestly expected me to speak.

"It's… It's… uhm…"

She laughed then, making a face. "Not the one. I agree."

When she had finally disappeared back into the dressing room, my head fell back to the wall with a sharp thud, and I pressed my clenched fists into my eyes, trying to force the resonant image of her from my mind, but it was etched into my retinas like a flashbulb negative. I counted frantically through my threes and tried to calm myself, to no avail. As ridiculous as I was acting, I was humiliated to realize how similar my methods were to Finn's inane mailman mantra. But I was worse than Finn—no matter how fast or how high I counted, I couldn't keep the thoughts from coming.

Several times, I imagined unspeakable debauchery occurring in the abandoned Jacuzzi in my back yard.

Each time Rachel left the fitting room, my fantasies were fueled even further. Though she was merciful, choosing to model only the more conservative examples she'd plucked from the racks, at one point, I stopped breathing altogether. When she asked my opinions, I choked on my words, barely able to form a coherent thought, and fought against squirming in my seat. My face was burning with a combination of shame and lust, and despite the fact that I was trying to play it off, I knew I couldn't hide it.

She had caught on to the fact that I was uncomfortable almost immediately, in that intuitive way of hers. After asking my opinion for only the second time, I could tell that she was onto me. I prayed that she didn't try to read into it, mortified at the thought of it, but if she did, I couldn't tell. In fact, she exerted all of her effort from that moment forward on trying to put me at ease.

It seemed like she had something humorous to say about every single bikini she tried on, even the ones I didn't get to see. She made jokes from within the safety of the dressing room, and offered her most blatant wit when she could see me. Every once in a while, while she was waiting for me to remember how to speak, she would pause, casting her eyes upward as she recognized the tune of the song filtering through the speakers in the ceiling, and she would sing and dance along, trying to make me laugh to diffuse the tension. I was grateful that she was trying—she even managed to get a strangled chuckle out of me once or twice—but even the fact that she was the most adorable person I'd ever met couldn't distract me from the fact that she was standing in front of me in nothing but a bikini.

After she finally decided on one—a two-piece that tied at the hips like the first one she'd tried on, but a deep aquamarine color, complimenting her skin so wonderfully that I literally couldn't take my eyes off of her until she'd disappeared back into the fitting room—she guided me around the store and urged me to pick out several swimsuits to try on for myself. By that time, I could hardly keep myself upright, but I obeyed. I pulled different options from the racks simply to please her—I honestly _couldn't_ deny her—and I took the fitting room she'd been in, even though I had no idea what I'd chosen, or if they were even the right size.

Locked safely behind a closed door, I spent what felt like forever trying to calm myself down. My face was practically burnt with the heat of the blood rushing under my skin. I took deep breaths, gulping down air, but I might as well have been a fish for all the good it did; the oxygen itself felt strange in my lungs. When it became apparent that my attempt at relaxing had failed, I began to try on the swimsuits I'd so unknowingly picked out, and doing so finally immobilized me.

Standing in front of the mirror, studying my exposed body, I felt my nerves begin to fray. I was apprehensive about letting her see me; honestly, afraid of what her reaction might be. I've worked hard to get myself in shape after everything that happened sophomore year, and I still have a fairly attractive body, I guess, even by today's standards, but that moment marked the first Rachel would ever see of it.

Though I convinced myself to try each of them on in the safety of the dressing room, Rachel somehow read my mind.

"Quinn, you're taking forever!" she whined. I could hear her feet tapping a rhythm against the floor. "Let me see!"

Before I replied, I tried to steady my voice, and I ended up failing miserably, stumbling over my words. "I—I don't like this one."

"No fair! You got to see me in the ones I didn't like, even that ridiculous thing with the beads!"

Honestly, by then, I didn't remember any beads. All I remembered was flawless bronze skin.

When I finally forced myself out of the stall, despite my apprehension, my eyes locked immediately onto her face, searching her eyes. I was afraid, but I _had_ to see. When she smiled—somewhat dumbly, it seemed, but maybe that was just wishful thinking—mumbling a soft 'wow' to herself, my ego from took off like a rocket. Said rocket consequently made my body feel like it was _on fire_, trapped beneath the intensity of her wandering and unwavering gaze. A moment later, when she claimed that she was jealous of my physique, I had to bite back my disappointment. I didn't want to believe that her awe had been the result of envy. Even if that was all it was, I still hoped that there was something more.

Of course, after the first one, I was suckered into showing her each bathing suit I'd brought with me into the dressing room. I tried my best not to analyze her facial expressions, avoiding her eyes, even though I couldn't help but notice the dimples that framed her smile. Her apparent excitement and happiness was infectious, and it slowly overcame my dejection. Yet with each new swimsuit I modeled for her, my apprehension remained, and my exquisite discomfort beneath her gaze grew. I tried to make the process less awkward in the same way she did—mainly for my benefit—singing along to Britney Spears and Taio Cruz and pointing out ridiculously obscure mistakes and oddities in both the fabric and design of whatever I happened to be wearing. I danced at times and made jokes, and all the while, I fought the urge to cover every bit of myself that I could from her scrutiny.

In the end, I let Rachel decide which bathing suit I bought. It wasn't overtly appealing to me, a pale white two-piece that tied at the back, neck, and hips, blending into a faded jade at the edges—which makes my eyes look "gorgeous," according to her—but it was easy to rationalize at the time that there is no one else that I would rather impress than her, even if she doesn't know it, so getting the bikini she likes me in best is my best bet at doing so.

Afterward, she proceeded to lead me around the store, sometimes by hand, because I forgot how to move my legs, searching for the perfect lei to match and a decidedly evasive grass skirt. I followed her willingly, though, by then, I was mentally out of commission. The bikini ordeal had taken the better part of two hours, and I was literally a mess. The sight of Rachel so scantily clad combined with the sensation of her eyes tracing over every inch of my exposed skin, however innocently or platonically, when it was my turn took a heavy toll on both my self-restraint and my sanity. I was losing my mind.

But, somehow, when we sat down together in the food court, I finally started to breathe again.

I don't know exactly what it was that turned me off. I only remember slouching into my seat, thankful for the support it offered my unsteady knees, and meeting Rachel's eyes across the table. I remember thinking to myself in that moment that, no matter how far or long I searched, I would never find anyone in the world more beautiful than Rachel Berry. She smiled at me then, so easily and so apparently devoid of expectation or hidden intention, that I began to wonder how I had ever gotten lucky enough to be there, sitting across from her, having her look at me like that—and maybe that was when it started.

I couldn't help but smile back at her, even though the mixture of spent relief, happiness, and infatuation plastered across my face was apparent. I may have imagined it, thinking wishfully again, but I could have sworn her smile grew even wider.

We were silent for a moment longer, but when she finally spoke—and I realize now that _this_ is the moment that changed it all—she said, "I'm really glad I'm here with you," and her voice drew my heart to the foreground and smothered my hormonal brain.

I melted, and so did the inappropriate thoughts that had been plaguing me. Ever since then, I've been staring endlessly, and she smiles to herself across the table and makes conversation with her father. I don't bother trying to conceal my fixation on her. For the time being, I'm too tired of fighting it. I'll snap out of it sooner or later; until then, a couple of minutes won't hurt.

The voice that could wake me from a millennium of sleep draws me from my reverie and into her conversation.

"_Daddy_," Rachel whines, and I decide that I love hearing that particular tone in her voice. "Of course I'll be home for dinner tonight," she says. "I wouldn't miss your pasta fagioli for anything in the world."

Even though there is absolutely no reason to think that she would, I'm irrationally disappointed that she wouldn't miss it even for _me. _I try to push the feeling away, but my face must betray me, because, from across the table, she looks pointedly into my eyes, knowing intuitively, as always, that I am coherent enough now to process the meaning of her words, and she shakes her head, rolling her eyes at the phone. A wide smile plays across her lips.

I smile back and drop my eyes for the first time in ten minutes. _Relax, Fabray. You're seriously jealous of her **parents**? _Even for me, that's a little far. I try to tame my emotions, conquering my jealousy—for the moment, anyway—and, in the end, only lingering in confusion on the last thing that Rachel said. _What on Earth is pasta fagioli?_

When I look back up, Rachel is setting her cell phone on the tabletop. I didn't realize I was so deeply distracted.

"I'm really sorry about that," she says when I meet her eyes, but the rueful quirk of her lips is a more compelling apology. "My dad thinks he's Rachael Ray." We both laugh at the analogy, and she's quick to insist that it's the truth. "I'm not even kidding. His obsession with the Food Network rivals my obstinate determination to star on Broadway."

I try to muster the control to raise an eyebrow in response. Once a trademark feature of mine, it's a rarity now. "I didn't think it was possible for anyone else to feel that strongly about anything."

_Except for me_, I want to add. _I feel that way about you, Rachel. A thousand times over._

Rachel laughs, apparently amused. "Trust me," she declares. "Meet him and you'll see."

I don't intend to reply—I'm not entirely sure what I should say to that—but even if I was going to, I don't have the time.

"Actually," she interjects, her eyes lighting up. "Come to dinner tonight."

I fight the shock-induced response of choking on my own saliva. As I grasp wildly for an answer to her request, I exhale slowly, trying to remember how to breathe, and my vocal chords emit a moronic hum. S_mooth, Fabray_.

I swallow the pulsating muscle that has crawled its way into my throat.

Rachel and I have met a couple of times out of school. We've talked briefly in the midst of shopping lines and traded greetings in passing at restaurants; we've spent an hour or two together in a record store, and inadvertently ended up in the same theater at the movies; we've walked together from one end of town to the other on a day that we both happened to be participating in the same charity event; we've crossed paths in the same public restroom, of all places—but today is the first time that we've sat down together and had a meaningful conversation, and it's the first time we've spent a total of nearly four uninterrupted hours together, and it's the first time I've ever seen her in a bikini—several of them, for that matter—and it's _definitely_ the first time that she's ever invited me over for dinner. It's been an eventful day already, I'm not sure I'm ready for such abrupt progression.

_Rachel, if you let me in your house, I may never leave._

"I—I, uhm… I don't exactly…"

"You murmur a lot, you know that?"

I blink at her, confused. "What?"

She laughs, and even though it's directed inherently _at_ me, not _with_ me, I don't mind. Things like malice and ridicule don't exist in Rachel's laughter.

"When you talk, you murmur," she explains. "That's the only word I can think of to describe it." She smiles and leans forward, her elbows settling lightly on the table, and she fixes me with a knowing gaze. "While I do love hearing it, I'm not so fond of your ill-prepared attempts at getting out of things."

_I hate that you can read me so easily, _I think to myself, and I try to ignore the comment about the way I talk, pushing it from my mind, but it doesn't work out so well. Her voice echoes through my brain. _'__While I love hearing it…'_

Disoriented, grasping for cohesion is a failed attempt. "I wasn't trying to—I just—"

_This is getting me nowhere._

"You're scared," she supplies.

Though her eyes are soft, her voice gentle, the blood drains from my face. _How could you possibly know that?_

"Believe me when I tell you that I understand, Quinn," she assures me. "I would probably run for the metaphorical hills if I was ever invited to dinner with your parents—but that's only because they would crucify me before I could say 'Jesus. Despite myself, I have to laugh. "You, on the other hand, have nothing to be worried about. My dads will love you. They already do, actually. Daddy came to Regionals last year, and he says you have a lovely voice."

_That's not at all what I'm afraid of._

"I—well, I—uhm…"

For all my incoherent babbling, I'm absolutely trapped and I know it. Not only has she set the foundation for an airtight plan of persuasion, but, even worse, she's got me in the palm of her hand. She gives me that smile, the smile that simultaneously promises everything I want and absolutely nothing at all, the one that fills my dreams and plagues my thoughts, the one that gets me through the day. She gives me that smile, and I fall in love with her just a little bit more. _You win, Rachel._

I only have one question.

"What's pasta fagioli?"

For a moment, it looks like she's going to launch herself across the table at me—which I wouldn't mind _at all_—out of sheer excitement.

"You'll come?" she asks.

I hesitate, weighing the options. _Am I really going to do this?_

"Saying yes sounds so… contractual."

_What if I make a fool out of myself? What if I say something stupid? _

_What if we're in her room, alone, and I kiss her?_

Imaginary Rachel would be delighted, but I'm not sure this Rachel would reciprocate so eagerly.

When she rolls her eyes at my comment, I smile despite myself.

"It's not a death sentence, Quinn. It's just dinner. And pasta fagioli is _delicious_, and that's all you need to know."

As soon as the word 'delicious' passes her lips, I'm sold.

"Coming." Inarticulate—monumentally—but it gets her to smile.

Whatever happens, that smile is worth it.

* * *

><p>Note: Okay, so, I totally cheated by taking the easy way out of all the bikini nonsense. But isn't hindsight 2020? ;p

Note: Pasta fagioli is a somewhat proper Italian name. Americans refer to it colloquially as pasta fazool.

Now, is everybody ready for a night with the Berrys? Berries? (Lol.) That is a difficult last name to pluralize correctly…

Regardless, onward! :D

If you haven't caught on to me by now, I'm not being obvious enough. Review? I'm not above begging.]


	4. Barely Breathing

Can I be the first to say that you all are amazing? Thank you to everybody who has been following this story and reviewing it. You guys are really great. :D

Before we take the plunge and dive headlong into the Berry household, I have to mention something. Apparently, in canon, Rachel's parents are Leroy and Hiram Berry, but, for the life of me, I can't seem to explicitly recall ever seeing them or hearing them named on the show—that doesn't mean I didn't miss it somewhere though—so I've already had my own characters constructed as her fathers for a while. Therefore, the names are wrong, so you'll have to forgive me. Hopefully, since they're not a very prominent or essential part of the show, it will be an insignificant quirk that is easy enough to overlook, because I'm not very intent on changing them, even though I'm wrong. Lol.

Now, with that out of the way, I urge you all to prepare yourselves. Mr. and Mr. Berry, meet Quinn. Quinn, meet close proximity.]

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><p><strong>Saturday, July 9th, 2011<strong>

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><p>'Whatever happens' is turning out to be exponentially more difficult to handle than I thought it would be.<p>

Honestly, tonight has been one of the best that I've had in months, but it's torture—the most exquisite torture.

Despite my initial apprehension, dinner went well, better than I could have anticipated. Rachel's dads are two of the most hilarious people I've ever met. I've never seen her laugh so much at one time before. Though I would never live through admitting it out loud, I'm incredibly jealous of their humor and their ability to make her throw her head back and roll with mirth. They told jokes throughout the entire meal—which, itself, was just as delicious as Rachel had promised me—and Rachel returned their banter without missing a beat. I was content to remain a spectator, watching them and laughing to myself, but every now and then, I pitched in as well, and while I couldn't quite get the reaction out of Rachel that her fathers did, I got something. There was an instant, after I'd countered one of their remarks with a witty retort of my own, where she turned to me, such glee painted across her face that I couldn't remember how to breathe; she rested her hand on my arm to steady herself, doubling over in her laughter, and for just the briefest moment, she let her forehead rest on my shoulder. My heart nearly burst.

After we finished dinner, I offered to help her with the dishes, and I ended up doing a spectacular job of proving myself utterly useless. The entire time we were in the kitchen, I could barely think, let alone force myself to move, quietly enraptured by her voice as she sang along to the radio settled on the counter next to the sink. It wasn't a surprise when she bashfully admitted that she never washed dishes without the accompaniment of music; I could have guessed that in my sleep. The surprise was that she knew every word to some of the nineties' alternative classics that I'd secretly coveted since my childhood, and she could sing along with them effortlessly. The lyrics to "Hanging By A Moment" poured like warm honey from her lips, her eyes grazing mine every now and then as she nudged my shoulder with her own, encouraging me to keep working whenever I had lost my train of thought and ceased to move.

Once I'd unglued myself from the kitchen floor, Rachel's fathers had suggested a board game, which eventually evolved into a card game. _In A Pickle_, they'd said the title was, a game that I had never heard of in my life, and they warned me ahead of time about the game's outcome.

"Rachel always wins," they whispered inconspicuously, only after Rachel had begun to dig through the large hutch against the wall. "Whatever you do, don't challenge her. Eventually, she'll find a way to prove you wrong, and you'll regret the fact that you ever brought it up in the first place."

I'd nodded and thanked them for the advice, and later, when she tried to tell the three of us, settled on miniature cushions around the Berry family's coffee table, that a megalodon could fit into a pocketbook, I obediently remained silent. Her fathers challenged her to make it interesting, of course, winking at me; and Rachel's explanation of the whole ordeal was wholly ridiculous, but completely adorable.

Over all, I've been fairing exceptionally well tonight in the Berry household—which is both a relief and a suckerpunch. I have never been so warmly received, even in my own house, and after everything that I've done to Rachel over the years, I had expected her fathers to hate me. They have every right to, just as Rachel does, and _should_, but they have been nothing but kind, and I don't understand exactly why. I'm assuming Rachel has something to do with it. She has either never explicitly mentioned my name to them, or she's forbid them from holding everything from the past against me; I don't know which. Either way, I feel guilty, being here, laughing with them, but I can't help the fact that I'm enjoying myself. It's almost unnerving how comfortable I am with her parents.

Rachel herself, however, is another story entirely. My stomach is knotted into a French braid of nervous excitement.

While I'm doing a wonderful job of making a fool of myself, tonight has been going well and Rachel doesn't seem to mind my ineptitude, so I'm trying valiantly to clear it all from my head. There's just one last complication that I can't overcome—the only _true_ problem that I have come across so far, embarrassing me far more than anything else I've done or said: _this game._

These cards obviously have it out for me, because, for the past two rounds, I've been dealt nothing short of humiliation.

My plays have included the most ridiculously sappy connections I could ever think of. Love into happiness; happiness into marriage; beautiful into smile; stars into eyes; friend into lover—to name a few—and I'm starting to think that Rachel is catching on. Once my turn has ended and I've played my card and my face has started to burn crimson, I sometimes catch her studying me over the brim of her cards, her lips drawn upward into a secret smile that reminds me of the way she had looked at me after her kiwi comment earlier today. Yet, just when I'm about to bend under the pressure, she drops her eyes back to her cards, intently consulting her hand for her next play, as if she didn't notice a thing—just like she's doing now.

After a moment of deliberation, she places her card delicately in the correct stack. "The house goes into the swimming pool," she says, and before either one of her fathers can interject and challenge her, she levels them with an omniscient smile, effectively silencing their unspoken protests. "Dollhouse, of course." The statement is concise and devoid of uncertainty. She catches my eyes briefly and I catch my breath.

Rachel's father Daniel—known by Rachel as Dad, I've learned—chuckles and shakes his head.

Conversely, Randy, who Rachel refers to exclusively as Daddy, huffs as he sorts his cards, but I don't miss the grin he spares for his daughter. "The chipmunk goes into the hole," he says.

Rachel nudges my shoulder, trading me a smile before focusing on her father. "What if it's a pinhole?" she asks innocently.

Randy raises a spare pillow and shakes it rapidly in her direction, chastising her. "Rachel Barbra Berry, don't you even start!"

Rachel pretends to cower, leaning into me to evade the non-existent attack. Her arm is warm against mine, and though my stomach is suddenly flooded with butterflies and Daniel and I are laughing at the theatricality, a contented warmth settles in my chest, and I find myself temporarily removed from reality.

Being here, seeing Rachel with her fathers is something special. It's obvious that they both adore her—Randy can't even bear to feign the act of assaulting her with a pillow—and it's a good feeling, knowing that she's so well cared for. Watching the three of them together makes it easier to understand how Rachel has been able to withstand all of the tribulations of life at McKinley for so long. No matter what happens, that inner light of hers is never extinguished, and, while much of it comes implicitly from her strength of character, I can see now that it's also partly because she has _this_ to come home to. Even though I should be jealous that my parents aren't nearly as in love with me as Rachel's are with her, I can only be happy for her, because she deserves it. I'm glad that, despite everything that threatens to bring her down, she has this.

When Daniel's voice draws me back to the moment, Rachel has already settled herself back into her previous spot, the pillow that Randy was threatening her with held loosely in her arms. My eyes linger on the embrace; I miss the warmth of her skin. _Lucky pillow…_

"Logic goes into the computer," Daniel says with his consistent air of repose. He places his card, and I turn back to the game.

His play is satisfactory; Rachel doesn't refute him. Her eyes dance back and forth between the coffee table and her hand. I follow her lead, studying the state of the game for a moment, before something clicks and my stomach flips. It's my turn.

I search my cards despondently, affirming the nagging feeling that I don't have many options. My potential spots have been taken by Rachel and her fathers. The only available choice I'm left with above reproach from Rachel's ever-analytical mind is not a play I'm intent on enacting. Somehow, the universe knows I have been complaining, and it has decided to up the ante, torturing me for real this time by cursing me with the most ridiculously ironic card I could ever have drawn from the plethora of others laying untouched in the main deck.

I search the stacks of cards on the coffee table, only to find once again that I really don't have a choice at all.

If this move doesn't give me away, incredulity will stop my heart.

I pull the card in question free of its place, nestled wolfishly among the non-threatening sheep that make up the rest of my tiny collection, and bring it toward the stack of cards to my right, directly in front of Rachel.

I begin to lower my hand, but, terrified, I pause. I don't know if I can actually do this…

_Play the damn card, Fabray, _I command myself. Profanity like this is reserved especially for such intense frustration.

I take a breath that does nothing for my quivering nerves, and I pray that Rachel doesn't see the way my fingers tremble against the flimsy film of the card's lamination. I keep the word printed across it's hidden face concealed for as long as I can, my heart pounding in my chest, before I finally put it down.

"The berry… goes into the heart." I don't even know if my voice is intelligible, I'm mumbling so badly.

There is a still silence around me, filled only by the deafening thunder of my heart in my ears. _Oh, God, just kill me now. _I don't look up from my cards, fixing my gaze downward in petrified stillness, even though I can feel the full-body warmth of Rachel's eyes caressing my face. _Please, let me drop dead. A stroke, a heart attack—anything, please! _But even if God doesn't strike me dead, I might die anyway from oxygen deprivation, because I can't breathe. My face is on fire. I don't move a muscle.

In the midst of praying for a quick and painless death, Rachel's voice overcomes the rushing in my ears, breaking into my tremulous thoughts. Through my peripheral vision, I can see her place her card just underneath mine.

"Happiness goes into the berry," she says. "Berry, as in Rachel."

My stomach flips again, this time for a different reason entirely.

_Please tell me I did not just imagine that… _I want to melt into the floor. _Did that really just happen?_

I try not to interpret her words as some kind of sign.

Randy breaks my concentration, crying from across the table, "Okay, okay!" I lift my eyes the slightest degree, curiosity cracking the shell that I'd buried myself in, to see him leaning against his husband much like Rachel had been leaning into me. For a reason unknown, he appears intimidated; apparently, I've missed something. "Will you stop giving me that look?" he carps, clutching at his partner. "Daniel, tell her to stop looking at me like that." It takes me a moment, but I realize eventually that his gaze is directed at Rachel.

I shift my eyes toward her, sneaking a glance as surreptitiously as I can, just in case she happens to catch me looking, but her attention is focused firmly on her father_—_and I decide that, if I were Randy, I would be intimidated too.

"Don't you pander to Dad," she lectures him, though I can tell by the slight quirk of her lips that she's only joking. I try not to acknowledge how wonderfully stern the tone of her voice is. "I could practically see the rebuttal forming in your head."

Randy holds up his hands, as if to wave a white flag, feigning innocence. "I wasn't going to say anything!"

Daniel chuckles at his partner's side. "There's no use fighting it, love," he says. He lays a comforting hand against Randy's shoulder, squeezing it gently, and I honestly think that Rachel's parents are the most wonderful couple in the world_—_though some part of me would argue that Rachel and I together would be irrefutably more adorable. Daniel prepares to speak again, but he pauses as the strain of a recorded melody, accompanied by a perceptively feminine voice that sounds suspiciously like Rachel, interrupts him. A cell phone, I assume. He turns his head toward the kitchen, but pats Randy's shoulder one last time before standing. His voice is sympathetic. "She knows you too well."

Rachel giggles as Daniel makes his way into the other room, and her mirth catches her other father's attention.

"Lest we forget, darling, that I know you just as well?" he asks. He smirks at her, affirming my suspicion that Rachel has taken a few of her diva techniques directly from his personality. "Shall I tell Quinn here about your impromptu performance last Hanukkah?"

My eyes find Rachel's face, intrigued, just as the color drains from her cheeks. "Daddy, you wouldn't!" she gasps.

"Oh, yes, honey, I would," he assures her. He laughs and his eyes meet mine across the table. "Would you care to listen?"

I share his smile without difficulty; my excitement and curiosity help find my voice. "Definitely."

"Well, last year—"

His lips continue to move, but, suddenly, I can't hear anything, because Rachel's hands are covering my ears.

Her body is warm, yielding, pliable and infinitely soft, pressed close to my own, trapping me against the foot of the sofa. Her forearm brushes my collarbone and the sensitive skin of my neck, her palm cupped over my ear to temporarily deafen me. Her other arm is looped over my shoulders, pulling me to her with surprising insistence, to reach the ear that is farthest from her. I've forgotten how to breathe. I am wholly, inescapably, blissfully surrounded. Her body is like a furnace, so heated that I feel like I'm going to combust. I'm liquid, on fire, melting into her. Trying_—_but ultimately failing__—__to ignore the fact that the subtle swell of her chest, pressed flush against my arm, is one of the clearest things in my mind, I notice only dimly that her face is closer to my own than should be physically allowed, and she's singing a tuneless cadence of melodies in my sheltered ear to drown out her father.

My body is about to implode.

_Rachel Berry, this is so unfair…_

I'm not sure what exactly Daniel says when he returns to the living room, since I'm deafened to everything but the sound of my deteriorating mental capacity—a cacophony very similar to an erratically resounding _Rachel, Rachel, Rachel, Rachel, Rachel_—but it distracts Randy enough that he momentarily abandons his attempt to embarrass his daughter, which induces Rachel to slowly lower her hands. Despite being able to hear, I'm far from recovering; she doesn't make any moves to distance herself.

"I'm sorry, Quinn," she says to me. "My father is sometimes prone to unnecessary cruelty. I needed to protect my integrity."

My vocal chords emit a multitude of unintelligent tones.

Thankfully, Randy interjects. "Oh, hush, Rachel," he chides. "I was merely trying to explain to Quinn how you—"

Rachel presses herself closer, like a heatwave surging against my skin, her hands once again pressed over my ears. My brain seems to liquefy in my skull, and my body begs to follow suit. I'm fairly certain that I'm not breathing, but her scent envelops me, a delicate haze. I'm drowning in it—but even deaf and half-braindead, I can still hear her muffled voice berating her father:

"Daddy!" she whines. "You're being so mean to me right now!"

Daniel chuckles from his place near the doorway—or, so it seems to me, judging by the grin on his face and the rhythmic catch of his shoulders_—_watching the interaction. He retrieves a jacket from the hook by the front door, shrugging into it and smiling fondly at his family, and Randy seems to sense his gaze, because he soon surrenders to Rachel and turns to look at him.

Rachel lowers her hands again, settling them on my shoulders as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Though I'm almost hyperventilating beneath her, she appears not to notice. Her attention is on her father. "Are you sure you have to leave, Dad?" she asks. "Is it an emergency?"

Again, I've missed something, though that doesn't really surprise me, considering that even my body's involuntary processes have forgotten how to work.

Daniel shakes his head in response to Rachel's question, but he appears somber. "Emery is going through a tough time right now. He's been getting worse over the past couple days. It's not an emergency, but it would be better if someone was there with him."

Randy pushes himself up from the floor. "I need to stop by Bradford's to check in on him," he says. "I'll drive you."

I don't know either of the men Rachel's fathers are talking about, but it seems impolite to ask, like it's not my place.

Daniel surveys Rachel and I—still pressed together against the sofa—as he waits for Randy to get ready. He chuckles.

"Will you girls be alright by yourselves?"

"Of course," Rachel promises him brightly.

Finally, she disentangles herself from my body, rising to her feet. I remain plastered against the sofa, trying to breathe. I regret the loss of her warmth immediately, but try to push it from my mind—or, what's left of it. I feel inverted, upside down, like all of the blood is rushing to my head, and I can't think clearly. I feel weightless and inexplicably heavy all at once, yet formless, like I have no bones. I have no idea how I survived being so close to her. Only my eyes remain functional, and they follow Rachel as she joins her fathers by the door.

"I'm sorry we have to leave in the middle of the game, honey," Randy says to her.

She shakes her head and tugs playfully at his hand. "It's okay, Daddy." To Daniel, she says, "Tell Emery that I hope things get better for him." She kisses each of them on the cheek.

Daniel smiles. "Sure thing, Princess." He lingers at the door, catching my eye. "It was nice to meet you, Quinn."

I clear my throat, somehow finding the strength to straighten my posture, realizing with humiliating clarity how I must look to him. "Likewise, sir."

Randy strokes Rachel's hair as Daniel slips outside, and I find it hard to believe that they can be so gentle when they banter so convincingly. "We'll check in later, alright?" He kisses Rachel's forehead, and calls back to me. "Goodnight, Quinn."

This time, my voice is stronger—but not by much. "Goodnight, sir."

Rachel lingers in the doorway for a moment, waving goodbye to them. "Bye, Dad. Bye, Daddy."

Watching her, staring blatantly, I know without a doubt that she is the most adorable girl in the world.

She shuts the door just after an engine hums to life in the driveway, and the moment she turns to face me, the whole house seems to shrink. The walls compress, closing in; the air grows thick. _Oh, God. _This is exactly what I'd been so afraid of when she asked me to come over tonight—being alone with her, in her own house, surrounded by anything and everything that is _her_, without anyone else here to censor me, talk sense into me, or stop me from doing everything I've always wanted to do—without any innocent bystanders present to make me think twice about my actions.

_Don't blow this, Quinn. _Even to myself, in my own head, I sound helpless. _Don't do anything stupid! If you ruin this, I swear to God… _

Rachel's eyes are warm and soft, much like I've just experienced that the rest of her is. She holds my gaze as she returns to the living room, completely open to me. That angelic light is back, shining on the endless possibilities in her eyes, the world of chances I never take. She kneels next to me at the coffee table, and I finally straighten myself fully, sitting upright.

_Don't say it, _I warn myself._ Don't say a word. _

I struggle to hold her gaze, my face warming.

_You're so beautiful, Rachel…_

She is agonizingly silent.

_Say something, please. Anything._

Her lips twitch, curling into a smile. "You know," she says, finally, "if I didn't know any better, I'd think people were trying to avoid us."

I don't exactly get what she's talking about, and I have the suspicion that it's written clearly across my face.

"Your mom very quickly excused herself at lunch," she clarifies, "and now my dads have disappeared."

As she begins gathering the cards on the table to put them away, I will myself to move. _Do something, Fabray! _

The gentle curve of her lips is distracting me. Trying to give her the cards still clutched in my nerveless fingers, I misjudge the distance. My fingertips tingle as they brush her palm. She smiles when I meet her eyes, a look that a can't quite decipher.

I swallow my nerves and force my gaze back to the table, reaching for the remaining cards.

"I know I'm insufferable sometimes," she laments, effectively disregarding my arrant faux pas as she nudges my shoulder with a grin, "but you'd think my own _parents_ would stick around."

In the midst of clearing the table, I pause. I drag my eyes back to her face. Her eyes are light with happiness, free of sadness or abjection. She seems happy—content, even. Though I adore being able seeing her so at peace, especially when she's with me, looking at _me_, I feel incontrovertibly guilty. The comment was for my benefit, a placeholder; I know that. She was making conversation so I wouldn't be nervous. She was trying to get me to relax, to laugh, intuitively perceptive of my apprehension and, like always, working at a remedy. She's been doing this all day, always thinking of me, of making me feel better_—_but that doesn't matter. Even though it was said in good humor, I can't let it go. I can't let something like that masquerade as the truth.

I turn to meet her eyes, locking our gaze. "You're not insufferable, Rachel."

_You are the sweetest, most beautiful girl in Lima. You are the most talented person I have ever met. You are the sun and the moon of my life, the only light I've known that has never gone out. You are the only good thing I have right now, Rachel. __Without you, it's like there is nothing worthwhile left in the world. __When I lose my faith, you make me believe._

Staring into the molten cocoa depths of her eyes, I've never been so close to telling her before.

I want to give in, to show her just how beautiful she is to me, more than anything—but I can't.

"You're… intense," I finally say, after grasping blindly for the right word. Her intensity is one of my favorite things about her, but saying it that way doesn't adequately express just how amazing it is to be on the receiving end of it, and I rush to clarify. "Intense in the best way possible… but never insufferable."

_The only thing insufferable about you is how insufferably amazing you are._

For a moment, the imaginary Rachel that lives in my brain, thriving in my heart, replaces the real one, and she looks at me the way I've always wished that she would. When she speaks, the soft sweetness of her voice is like a lullaby. "Thank you for saying so."

She smiles then, contemplative, but before she can turn away, my hand finds her wrist. "I'm serious," I promise her.

I ignore the fact that I'm being forward. I ignore the tingle of my fingertips against her skin. I need her to know this.

I need her to know that, despite what everyone says, despite their jeers and complaints, there is nothing wrong with her. I need her to know that I could kick each and every single member of glee club in the teeth whenever I hear them comment on her attitude. I need her to know that all of the negative things that I had spent so much time drilling into her, all of the insults and the ridicule—the _lies_—were, and remain, just that: lies. I need her to know that all of the things I have ever said to her, all of the things I've done to her, were wrong, and that I hate myself for them.

More than anything, I need her to know that I love her, that I believe in her, and that she is the most amazing person I've ever met—but right now, I'm not ready. It isn't the right time, not for that. I'm not ready to come to terms with my guilt. For now, right now, all that I can give her is this.

_Please, Rachel. Please, believe me._

The intensity that I love so much—even _crave_, sometimes—darkens her eyes; they grow warmer, impossibly deep. Her gaze falls to my hand, which seems to draw the corners of her mouth further upward into a smile. After a moment, she lifts her eyes back to my face. "I believe you."

The metaphorical boa constrictor that has been strangling my heart releases. I can breathe again. I hold Rachel's gaze for a moment longer, trying to read her. Her honesty is clear, evident and unmistakable, but something in the way she looks at me is changing. Something has crossed her mind.

"Now that my dads are gone, can I ask you something?" Her voice is soft.

_What could you possibly want to ask me that you couldn't ask in front of your parents?_

I try to fight my rising anxiety, to no avail. I draw my hand reluctantly from her arm. "Sure."

Her face is tilted downward and to the side, as if she's thinking deeply. She avoids my eyes for a moment, her eyes fixed on her wrist, where my hand had been just a second ago, and she peers up at me only when she speaks. "Tonight hasn't been too terrible for you, has it?"

The floor drops out from under me, the boa constrictor squeezing more tightly than ever. I feel like I'm crumbling into a million pieces.

For the first time since lunch, Rachel appears uncertain. Her eyebrows are drawn together, the curve of her lips angled downward but for the corner that she clutches between her teeth. Her eyes pin me to the spot. As always, she's free of expectation, no assumptions, just waiting for me to answer her. It's clear that she wants the truth, and I want so badly to tell her, to finally give in and tell her _everything_, but I can't find the right words to explain. It feels like I've been punched in the stomach. I hate this look. I hate knowing that I'm part of the reason it's there.

She should never have to worry that she's not good enough.

_You are the most wonderful person I know, Rachel. I hate myself for making you doubt that._

All of the wrong words race into my mouth, a torrent of profuse apologies accompanying the threat of visceral sobs, but I force them down. I'm not ready for this. I can't do this—not yet. I'll hurt her. To try and explain it all now would only do more harm than good—but someday, I will. Someday, I'll tell her.

_Someday, Rachel._

"It hasn't been terrible," I tell her. "At all." I force every ounce of sincerity I can into my voice. "It's been—I've had a great time."

She smiles then, in a way that I've only imagined before, the hesitance and uncertainty in her eyes vanishing as if it never existed. She nods once, softly, and rises to her feet. I watch her as she returns the game to the cherrywood hutch next to the television, and my heart finally begins to beat again.

When she turns back to me, the effervescence and exuberance I'm familiar with is back in place. "So, what would you like to do now?" she asks.

Studying her as she sways slightly in place, her arms behind her, patient and innocent, I realize again that we are alone, and I wonder what exactly you do with the girl of your dreams when her parents are gone and it's just the two of you, completely alone, in her house. My mind rebels against me, wandering.

With my lewd, immoral imaginings, guilt filters in—a subconscious reaction to how pathetic it is that I can switch gears so abruptly when it comes to her—but I ignore it. She's smiling at me, waiting patiently, extending an indirect invitation for me to stay with her. She's not kicking me out of the house, even though her fathers are gone. We're alone now, and she wants me to _stay_—and try as I might to fight it, imaginary Rachel begins to wake from her slumber.

I can suddenly think of plenty of things I would like to do.

_Don't answer her,_ I tell myself, with a great deal of flustered vehemence.

"We could go up to my room," Rachel suggests. She raises one of her bronze shoulders in a half-shrug, as if it's no big deal.

I want to dive underneath the couch. _For the love of God. Your room, Rachel? Do you have any idea what I would do to you in there?_

She continues, oblivious to my internal meltdown. "There's my laptop, some DVDs, and music, of course. I'm sure we can find something to do."

_Right… Something… _

My throat feels ten times tighter than it should. "Sure," I squeak.

I stand on shaky knees as she beckons me to follow her, and I trail obediently behind her as she leads the way up the stairs. Erratic palpitations plague my heart. _This is such a bad idea. Her bedroom? Her **bedroom**? _I can barely breathe; my lungs themselves quiver with anticipation. From my vantage point behind and just below her_, _a single step behind, I force myself to keep my eyes on the back of her head, wondering at the silken texture of her lustrous chestnut hair, to keep them from focusing on anything inappropriate.

_Oh, God._

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><p>Note: I've realize that when it's not just Quinn and Rachel alone, it's harder to put in Quinn's internal monologue. Writing in the other characters actions and dialogue kind of distracts from the flexibility of time in the moment, so, to keep everything fluid, a lot of her actual thoughts had to be cut out. My apologies.<p>

Note: In A Pickle is quite a strange game, and very objective indeed. The point is to find ways for things to fit into other things that you wouldn't necessarily expect them to be found in or to fit in, though it can be conceptual as well. Creativity is encouraged, but many suggestions are refuted and, eventually, trashed. It is, however, pretty fun to play, regardless. Worth checking out in cases of severe boredom. It's guaranteed to earn a few laughs.

Note: I realize now that Quinn is almost as bad as a teenage boy. Like flipping a switch. But the love is always there, and that's what matters.

Soooo… Next stop, Rachel's bedroom. It might not be what you're all expecting.]

By the way, she doesn't let just anyone in there, you know. Pay up! Review, I say!


	5. Falling Over Me

Hey, everyone! I know this update was a little late, but I hope you're all still hanging in there. I have a very good excuse for my absence, trust me. I'm moving into my first apartment this week, so everything's been kind of hectic with all the packing and organizing and planning and unpacking and everything. Just so you know, for the next week or so, I probably won't have as much time to write as I would like, so I hope everybody can understand where I'm coming from and try to bear with me.

I'm really going to try to keep a somewhat normal schedule in regards to updating, but we'll have to see how it goes. Wish me luck.

But, for now, this part is done, so I'll go head and get to it. Prepare yourselves, friends. Rachel's bedroom awaits!

Note: Lyrics and thoughts are both italicized, but, to help clarify, lyrics are denoted with accents around them.

Review! Please?

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><p><strong>Saturday, July 9th, 2011<strong>

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><p>Despite the speculations that had circled the group in Glee one day when she was talking privately with Mr. Schuester, Rachel's bedroom door is not plastered with an amalgamation of gold stars, treble clefs, and music notes. There aren't any tiaras pinned to the doorframe, or gargantuan cases of trophies lining all of the walls. There isn't a life-sized cutout of Barbra Streisand there to greet you outside. The door is simple, wrought of dark wood, like much of the rest of the house is, and printed in sparkling—yet, somehow, modest, subdued—gold letters, just at the level of her eyes, is her name, followed by a single, elegant star.<p>

Coming face to face with it for the first time, I can't help but think that _this, _with all of its reserved charm and simple beauty, fits her far more than any of the outlandish aspects that Mercedes and Sam and Puck had envisioned. I hadn't believed them then, but seeing it now seems to confirm the fact that they don't really know her at all.

As Rachel reaches for the doorknob, she pauses. She glances at me over her shoulder. "Are you afraid?" she asks. Her voice is light, teasing, and it halts me in my step. It makes me wonder if she actually had heard all of the rumors about her bedroom. Though, even if she did, it doesn't seem to bother her. "Nothing is going to explode or blind you with sparkles," she says, recounting the gossip, "but it is a little… intense." Her lips curl upward at the secondhand word, like a poke in the ribs, a nudge.

I draw in a slow breath. _Now, of all times, is not the time to tease me, Rachel._

For the most part, my façade is holding—but, inside, I'm a mess. So close to the place I've only seen in my daydreams, the one place I never thought I would actually get to be, my excitement, anticipation, dread, and overall apprehension are bordering on the cause for an aneurism, threatening my stability. I feel unbalanced, off kilter, excruciatingly alive. The tumult of emotion clouds my brain, and it's hard to find my voice, buried somewhere beneath the monolithic mess of my failing limbic system.

"I think I can handle it," I say after a moment. Despite my inner meltdown, I need her to know that her intensity doesn't bother me.

She gives me one of those smirks that imaginary Rachel wears in abundance. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

I swallow thickly, the sound—to my immense relief—overpowered by the coil of springs and the creak of hinges as Rachel opens the door.

_Oh, God. This is it._

She crosses the threshold and lingers just inside, turning to catch my eyes as she waits for me to follow. Though her gaze is encouraging, it takes a tremendous amount of effort to move. It feels like the soles of my shoes are superglued to the floor, and Rachel's warm chocolate eyes are melting me like wax. I take the first step haltingly. My legs are stiff and heavy, yet, somehow, they tremble—an impossible oxymoron, like gelatinous lead. It feels like I'm shutting down, collapsing, but once I finally start to move, my mind follows suit, and it plummet into the gutter, into the deep recesses of my desire. I attempt to hide my clenched fists behind my back.

_Behave yourself, Quinn Fabray, or so help me… _

The next step I take is smoother, more certain—though I don't feel that way_ at all_—and before I know it, I've joined her in the bedroom.

While my first instinct is to pinch myself to make sure that I'm not dreaming, inwardly raving about the fact that I'm in Rachel Berry's _bedroom_, _alone_ with her, both of her fathers absent, I wrestle my inappropriate urges into submission. _Stop it! _I command myself. Searching for direction to tame my compulsions, I turn to Rachel.

"Feel free to explore," she says, like she can see the apprehension written across my forehead. She leans back against the door to give me more space, and though she regards me easily, her eyes are smoldering, agonizing in their omniscience, lit with so much intensity that I feel like I could spontaneously combust. "No boundaries."

I fight the urge to curl into a tiny ball of sheer frustration. _No boundaries? _I want to melt into the floor. _If only, Rachel._

To keep myself in check—vicariously aware that my aggression, while usually dormant, is nearly impossible to curb when she's so close to me—I take her advice. I move past her and farther into the room, my limbs like Jell-O. I hide under the guise of investigation, using my curiosity as an escape route. She's saying all of the right things, all of the things I've always wanted to hear her say, at the _worst_ time, and it's not helping my internal struggle. I'm desperate to put some distance between us before I end up doing any of the indecent things my mind is screaming for me to do, like push her up against the door she's so innocently leaning against and—_**Stop!**_

Against my best efforts to calm myself, the breathing exercises that Coach taught us when I joined the Cheerios are useless. _God, this is so not helping_…

My body is on autopilot, following along the nearest wall, but all of my conscious effort is devoted to forcing the wicked thoughts that plague me out out of my head. _This is important_, I remind myself vehemently. This isn't just an invitation riddled with a thousand subtle implications—it's so much more than that. This is a sign that Rachel trusts me. By letting me into her room, she's letting me see the personal space where, no matter what, she'll always feel comfortable. She's showing me where she feels safe, revealing a side of herself that not many people are lucky enough to see—and a part of me can't believe that I'm being so insensitive to it. I feel guilty for allowing myself to blow it off so easily, to think so little of what this moment really means.

It's not fair to objectify her this way, not when she's offering to share such an important part of herself with me. _She means more to you than this. _

I shake all of the ill-timed thoughts of imaginary Rachel out of my mind, and my guilt helps keep them at bay. I direct my attention toward my surroundings instead.

I've always wanted to see Rachel's bedroom. I've always wondered what she chooses to surround herself with when she's completely alone. Yet, as much time as I've spent imagining it, I've never been able to settle on a concrete conviction about what it would look like before. Faced with it now for the very first time, I decide that it's exceedingly different than anything I've ever had in mind. Everything is doused in various shades of purple. The walls are flushed with a faint tinge of lilac; the curtains on the window, a deep violet. Her pillows vary, several dark and lavender, some of them velvet mauve; her downy duvet a powdered amethyst.

Initially, the color scheme is surprising. There are no hints in Rachel's daily wardrobe or personal belongings to suggest that her favorite color is purple; she always wears a diverse variety of colors—all of them extremely well-suited to her skin tone, at that—and she never seems to linger on one particular hue for too long. Looking around, however, I realize that, even though it isn't the first thing anyone would expect, somehow, it's not hard to imagine her here. I can easily see her seated at the desk near the window, bent over her homework—or sheet music, more likely—singing to herself as she works; curled up in the suede moon chair in the corner, reading, writing in her journal; laying in bed, propped up on her elbows, watching a movie, or nestled beneath the comforter, waking as the sunlight breaks across her skin…

Her room is warm and welcoming, distinctly soft, comfortable, just like Rachel herself, like you could lose yourself inside for days and never want to find your way out— but, just as she promised me, it's intense, in that unmistakably subtle way she sometimes has. It isn't the double bookcases stacked shelf upon shelf with movies, CDs, and books; it isn't the vanity against the far wall, pinned liberally with pictures of her favorite stars and bits of paper bearing her most favored inspirational quotes. What makes it intense is the fact that every single wall is covered with song lyrics, hand-painted in various shades of blue, from cornflower to cerulean, some written so small that they can only be read up close, some large enough to span the full lengths of the walls, curling and winding in the most beautifully scripted calligraphy.

_Oh, my God… _I turn from wall to wall, entranced, trying to memorize each and every word, like her very soul is written in them, on display for me to see.

_~ We've got all night just to make it alright  
>Would you take a walk with me?<br>I'll give you all I've got; just spare me your time  
>And I promise you won't want to leave ~<em>

The color of the paint changes with the song, spiraling into a different hue for each melody. I follow the silent symphonies like a musical map, captivated.

_~ You're so hypnotizing  
>You've got me laughing while I sing<br>You've got me smiling in my sleep  
>And I can see this unraveling<br>Your love is where I'm falling  
>But please don't catch me ~<em>

Subconsciously, I realize that I must look ridiculous, so obviously in awe, staring, mouthing the words to myself, but I don't care. I can't tear my eyes away.

_~ You are the cool wind that frees my bones  
>And I'm so reckless when you call to me<br>But when you're gone and I am so alone  
><em>_I want to curse the spell you have on me ~_

While each word is ineffably beautiful, some of the lines are simply adorable, cute in a way that is so completely Rachel that they make me smile to myself.

_~ Words don't come easy without a melody  
>I'm always thinking in terms of do, re, mi ~<em>

On the other hand, some of them stun and unsettle me, throwing me with their unconcealed suggestions.

_~ Let's make a scene  
><em>_Like the movies in our dreams  
><em>_Make me scream  
><em>_Take me down  
><em>_No one's watching ~_

_~ I feel so untouched  
><em>_And I w__ant you so much  
>That I j<em>_ust can resist you  
><em>_It's not enough to say that I miss you  
><em>_I feel so untouched right now  
><em>_Need you so much, somehow  
><em>_I can't forget you  
><em>_Been going crazy from the moment I met you ~_

Yet, just below or to the side, inches away, some of them are so powerful, laden with so much emotion—so much _sadness_—that I find my breath catching in my throat.

_~ Even the best fall down sometimes  
><em>_Even the wrong words seem to rhyme ~_

_~ Your subtleties  
>They strangle me<br>I can't explain myself at all ~_

_~ Set me free; leave me be  
>I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity <em>

Some of them are so honest, hitting so close to home, that they only confirm my suspicion that Rachel can see right through my tenuous pretenses.

_~ You've got a face for a smile, you know  
>A shame you waste it when you're breaking me slowly<br>But I've got a world of chances for you ~_

_~ When I look at you, you're so far away  
>Oh, if you could just let go ~<em>

Some of them—the majority of them, really—just make me want to pull her into my arms and hold onto her forever.

_~ If I lay here  
>If I just lay here<br>Would you lie with me  
>And just forget the world? ~<em>

_~ I die each time you walk away  
>My heart, my life, will never be the same<br>This love will take my everything  
>One breath, one touch, will be the end of me ~<em>

_~ It's three in the morning  
>And I'm still not sleeping<br>'Cause I'm finally running your race  
>The mountains you've been climbing<br>Seem like they have steepened  
>Since I decided to pick up the pace<br>If the whole world told me I should disappear  
>Could I fall right next to you?<br>Just let me burn the night away  
>Oh, baby, let me burn the night away<br>By thinking of the simple things you say to me  
>That get me through the day<br>You keep me wide awake  
>You keep me wide awake ~<em>

Some of the songs are familiar, the lyrics accompanied by the memory of their melody, while others are completely foreign to me, tuneless and clear, like poetry, but they are all woven together in the most wonderful collection of words I have ever seen. Even when I've read all that I can see, I don't want to look away; I don't want to miss anything. I need to know that I've seen every single letter, memorized every emotion hidden in their beguiling code.

I don't know how long I've been lost, drowning my apprehensions and second guesses and giving in to my wonderstruck reverence, but I can't find it in myself to worry. Rachel hasn't made a point to stop me yet, or even tease me about it, and I'm content to let myself linger in the moment just a little while longer.

I reach out to touch the nearest set of words, the paint textured and genuine under my fingertips. I can almost hear her singing to me.

"Rachel, this is…" I trail off into silence. I don't know where I found my voice to begin with; the words to finish aren't there.

"Fairly new, actually," she fills in for me. She sounds so far away, even though I know she's only steps behind me. Somehow, like light, she emits her own radiance, her own warmth; though I can't see her, I can feel her there. "My dads just helped me remodel it a couple of weeks ago." She laughs softly, but I'm too caught up to share it, still searching the walls. "You should have seen it before," she says. "It was just as over the top, ostentatious, and pink as everyone in Glee thought it was."

I let myself ruminate on the idea, imagining this fictitious pink room with an automatic, involuntary grin, but the thought slips swiftly away. When I finally reach the far side of the room, standing before the only wall that is completely devoid of furnishings—directly opposite her bed, as if it was done purposely so that she could always see it clearly—I stop. Near the top, a new column of lyrics begins in a smoky slate blue, and it stretches nearly the whole length of the wall, reaching for the baseboard at my feet, and even though it is the longest piece I've seen in her room by far, I can tell by the uniform color and size, despite the breaks around what I assume is the chorus, that it is all part of the same song. My intrigue urges me forward, but I find myself backtracking, rereading, desperate to comprehend the words.

_~ She loves her mama's lemonade  
>And hates the sounds that goodbyes make<br>She prays one day she'll find someone to need her  
>She swears that there's no difference<br>Between the lies and compliments  
>It's all the same if everybody leaves her<br>And every magazine tells her she's not good enough  
>The pictures that she sees make her cry<em>

_She would change everything  
>Everything, just ask her<br>Caught in the in-between  
>A beautiful disaster<br>She just needs someone to take her home_

_She's giving boys what they want  
>Tries to act so nonchalant<br>Afraid they'll see that she's lost her direction  
>She never stays the same for long<br>Assuming that she'll get it wrong  
>Perfect only in her imperfection<br>She's not a drama queen  
>She doesn't want to feel this way<br>Only seventeen, but tired ~_

My eyes burn with unshed tears. My tongue is lead; my throat is hollow.

_No… She can't— This isn't—_

More than ever, I'm glad that she's behind me, that she can't see me.

I want to break into a thousand pieces, to shatter into oblivion.

_Does she feel this way? Is this how she sees herself?_

I can't help but think that it's all my fault. I did this to her. For so long, I've done all that I could to sabotage her, to ruin her, to make her life miserable; everything I ever said to her, all of the things I did, led to _this_. I've known it for so long, but now it's finally staring me in the face, eviscerating, raw, and I can't block it out.

_I'm so sorry, Rachel. I'm so sorry for everything._

I try to breathe, but my chest constricts, violently protesting the movement. _I don't deserve to breathe. _

_All of this is my fault. I did this. I've hurt her so badly_…__

My stomach is a punching bag, pummeled endlessly by the wrecking-ball fists of my guilt.

_I never meant to, Rachel. I never meant for this to happen._

_I'm so sorry_… I wish_— I just_— __I'm so sorry_…___

My vision blurs as my eyes begin to burn. Tears like tidal waves threaten to spill.

I need to push through this. If I don't pull myself together, I'm going to break down completely. I can't do this now. I'm not ready to face this, and if it all comes out now, I'll ruin everything. I'm not ready to tell her everything that I need to tell her, and keeping it from her, only telling half of the truth, will just hurt her more.

I try to think of where she left off, playing her voice over in my head, desperate to distract myself. _Her room, _I remember. _All of this is new._

Pushing the guilt away is like trying to climb a mountain when you know you're chained by the bones to its base.

My throat is tight, and I can't find the strength to raise my voice higher than a whisper. "Why did you change it?" I ask.

Rachel doesn't comment on my sudden dejection, but I know that she notices. Even though she can't see me directly, she can read me; like always, she can see right through me; and she answers my question without hesitation, I think, because she knows how close I am to breaking. "I felt like I was ready for a change," she says.

Her voice is soft, subdued and gentle in an unspoken offer of solace—but she's the last person I deserve to be comforted by.

"Ever since New York, things have been different." She takes a breath, as if collecting herself. "I feel… bigger, as ridiculous as it sounds. I'm not a little girl anymore."

Though I hang on her every word, empathizing with her to some degree, I can't even bring myself to look at her.

I stare with unseeing eyes at the wall before me. I don't need to see it. The agonizing verses have already sunk in, infectious, acidic, like poison. They've become part of me—but as long as she keeps talking, I'm safe. As long as she gives me something to hold onto, I'll be okay.

"Even though my dreams haven't changed, I don't need to see them all over my room," Rachel says. I notice that she hasn't made a move to join me, and though she can't hear me, I silently thank her for letting me have a moment to rebuild my fragile defenses. "I know what I want for myself well enough now that I can have this."

I understand what she's trying to tell me. New York was a wakeup call for all of us, especially for her. Something about being in the city woke some latent part of her, and she even broke up with Finn because of it. Ever since then, there's been something different about her. She seems calmer, more sure of herself, like there isn't a need to fight anymore. Her take-charge persona has mellowed out; she seems reserved, in a way, but infinitely stronger than before. It's been a beautiful change to have seen in her, knowing that she finally believes in herself enough to let things happen as they will—and though I loved her unconditionally before, it's making me fall even harder.

But I can't find the words to tell her any of that. My guilt weakens me, debases me; I'm not strong enough to tell her how I really feel.

I can only find the will to speak for a moment, articulate enough to say through a whisper, "It's amazing."

_You're amazing…_

My throat aches again, and the pain spreads, permeating my chest, pricking at my eyes. I try to swallow it away, searching desperately for different words, another song, anything to clear my head. Mercifully, something presents itself. Just to the right of the lyrics that threatened to tear me into a thousand pieces, another song begins, a shorter verse, scripted larger, painted more obviously, and I latch onto it. I urge the jumbled letters into my brain, force-feeding them against the stubbornness of guilt.

_~ Who you are is falling over me  
>Who you are is everything I need<br>I'm hoping, I'm waiting  
>I'm praying you are the one<br>And I'm hoping, I'm waiting  
>I'm praying you are the one ~<em>

The lyrics are unfamiliar, but something about them settles warmly within me, despite my shame, somehow resonating with the depth of my feelings for her.

"This one." I reach out, tracing the waves and divots of the paint with trembling fingers. "What song is this?" I ask.

When she answers, her voice is low, little more than a whisper over my shoulder.'Falling Over Me,' by Demi Lovato."

I can feel her moving, able to sense her innate radiance, the warmth that she gives off. When she's settled herself next to me, her gaze fixed on the words, I find myself drifting away from the suffocating oppression of my remorse. I study her face, the features that have become so familiar to me—the gentle curve of her lips; the delicate arch of her brow; her dark, expressive eyes—and I wish so much in this moment that things could be different, that our past didn't keep me from moving forward.

_You're so beautiful, Rachel. __I wish you knew just how amazing you are. I wish I could be the one to tell you___…____

I don't care if she notices me staring, or if I look as broken as I feel. For now, I lose myself in her, and I forget who I am and the things I've done. I'm just a body, just a heart, a pounding knot of cardiac muscle, so deeply in love with the girl standing next to me that nothing else matters. There is a moment, however, when I realize that, somewhere, buried deep in the dense clouds of my subconscious, there is a latent longing to hear her—to _really_ hear her.

When it dawns on me, it doesn't allow for even a minute to deliberate. I find myself speaking on impulse, involuntarily imploring her. "Sing it for me?"

Her eyes meet mine, shaded with an inquisitive warmth, silently questioning the honesty of my intent. I don't respond verbally, but she must be able to see through my own eyes that my request is sincere, because she smiles softly to herself and drops her gaze. The flush that rises in her cheeks is unexpected; she's never nervous about singing. She accompanied the radio just beautifully and effortlessly as ever only an hour ago—she can't be out of practice. Then again, I rationalize, I've just asked her to serenade me, and that might not have been the best idea. _Maybe this song is personal. Maybe she doesn't want to sing to you. _Even though I'm willing to admit that it was an impetuous decision, I can't find it in myself to regret it when the first notes of the melody fall without prelude from her lips.

The body I've reduced myself to, the heart, the mass of cardiac muscle—all of it melts away at her voice.

"I'm standing in the center of the room,  
>I'm watching boys follow girls' perfume,<br>All is as it should be, I assume,  
>Except for the distance between me and you,"<p>

She sways gently with the music that I can't hear. Her delicate presence overtakes the room, until everything about this moment is soft—the room, the walls, the colors, her voice. It's been so long since I've heard her unaccompanied, just her; it reminds me how much I love her solos, her solitary arias. She's stunning, breathtaking.

"You're standing as a flower on the wall,  
>The room is here, but we're about to fall,<br>And all the names that brought us here  
>Simply fade away,"<p>

Her gaze is directed at the wall, but she's focused on something that isn't there, lost inside of herself. I wish, more than anything, that she would look at me.

"Who you are is falling over me,  
>Who you are is everything I need,<br>I'm hoping, I'm waiting,  
>I'm praying you are the one,<br>And I'm hoping, I'm waiting,  
>I'm praying you are the one,"<p>

When she sings the chorus, everything that I've been pushing down, holding captive inside of me dissipates, dissolving into nothing. The guilt, seizing and unrelenting in my chest; the sadness weighing heavily in my heart, pumping poisonous mercury—it fades away. The only thing that remains is a single thought: _I love you, Rachel._

"I can't believe that night turned into today,  
>I used the line you were supposed to say,<br>And all the names that brought us here,  
>Now, we have to thank,<p>

Who you are is falling over me,  
>And who you are has got me on my knees,<br>I'm hoping, I'm waiting,  
>I'm praying you are the one,"<p>

_I'm praying you're the one, Rachel…_

"If you want, I will wait,  
>I will follow; I'm here to stay,<br>As long as we're promised tomorrow,  
>I promise you today,<br>I'll wait, I'll wait,

Who you are is falling over me,  
>And who you are has got me on my knees,<br>Yeah, I'm hoping, I'm waiting  
>I'm praying you are the one<br>I'm hoping, I'm waiting,  
>I'm praying you are the one,"<p>

There is a sweet softness in the atmosphere, hushed in a short pause as she takes a breath, and it feels like my whole existence hangs in the moment.

"You are the one…"

Her voice fades into silence, and I mourn the loss, but only for a moment. I can't draw my eyes away from her. Here, beside her, in this delicate ambiance, in this room that seems so effortlessly to reveal who she really is, that bears her soul at every turn, I've never felt so consumed by her, so absolutely devoted to her. Everything that plagues me is nothing compared to the intensity of this moment, and when Rachel's eyes finally meet mine, warm in the way that renews my strength and my faith, I feel like that person isn't me. I'm not Quinn Fabray; I'm just a body, just a heart, just a knot of cardiac muscle. I'm just a soul, helplessly in love.

_I would do anything for you, Rachel. _Having been here, sharing this with her, it feels as though I'll never be the same person again—as though I'll never look at her the same way again. I can see her now through new eyes, and she's even more luminous than she was before. She's beautiful. She's the only thing that matters.

_Who you are is everything I need…_

* * *

><p>Note: Sorry if this chapter is a little off. I was trying to rush to get it posted.<p>

Note: I'm hoping that all of this this came across the way I wanted it to, but if it didn't, I apologize for the disappointment.

Note: For the sake of my sanity, let's ignore the fact that Quinn is borderline bipolar here.

Song lyrics included are listed as follows (chronologically Mae Just Let Go; Demi Lovato Catch Me; Mae My Favorite Dream; Joe Jonas and Demi Lovato You're My Favorite Song; Hey Monday Obvious; The Veronicas Untouched; Howie Day Collide; The All-American Rejects It Ends Tonight; Sara Barielles Gravity; Demi Lovato World of Chances; Mae Just Let Go; Snow Patrol Chasing Cars; Trading Yesterday Love Song Requiem; There For Tomorrow Burn the Night Away; Jon McLaughlin Beautiful Disaster; Demi Lovato Falling Over Me

End day one. Due to my increasingly busy schedule, subsequent days will occur only if my lovely readers encourage me to continue.

This is an active reward-based system. If I don't get reviews, I don't have the energy to move on!


	6. Crazy For This Girl

Hey, everyone! Again with the lateness—I know, I know, I'm terrible. Sadly, all this moving has left me very little time to write. Even worse, I was without internet for almost a week! I felt like a caveperson. However, all is well on the technological front so far, so, hopefully, things will start getting back to normal. I know it's late, but I hope you all can understand where I'm coming from and forgive me. Now that that's out of the way, how about we get to the story?

This chapter picks up the morning after Quinn's almost-meltdown in Rachel's bedroom. If you remember correctly, by the end of it, Quinn was feeling a little bit on the brighter side, so that's where all of this comes from. It's meant to give an example of the way in which their friendship develops, but I really just wanted some fluff. Lol.

Again, please excuse any mistakes or weirdness you may come across. It's hard to keep up a particular theme and feel in the midst of all this craziness.

That said, I hope everyone enjoys chapter six!

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday, July 10th, 2011<strong>

* * *

><p>7:32 AM is far too early to be up in the middle of summer, but here it is, down to the minute, and I'm wide awake.<p>

The dawning rays of sunlight filter lazily through the windows and blinds, sluices of pale yellow racing across the floor and the walls, stretching across my bed. Today, its brilliance doesn't bother me. It wasn't the sunshine that woke me. It wasn't my faithfully accurate internal clock either. I've been lying awake for half an hour, blissfully content with the mere fact that I am alive, genuinely happy for the first time in my immediate recollection, all because of _her_.

Ever since last night, I haven't been able to think of anything or anyone else. Not even the imaginary figment of her in my mind can replace her. For months, she's run a daily marathon through my brain, but, now, somehow, things are different. She was a spectator before, a part of my subconscious, and she had an influence on anything and everything that came to mind. Now, nothing else comes up. Rachel Berry is the singularity of my universe.

When I close my eyes, I can see her, the curve of a smile on her lips, her chocolate eyes dark, an infinite galaxy of stars within them…

My stereo hums in the background, filling the seven o'clock silence with a vague and familiar tune. I have to keep it quiet, barely audible, so that my parents don't hear, because neither of them—despite my mother's forgiving nature—would approve of my taste in music. Even so, turning it on was one of the first things I did when I woke up. I needed something extrinsic, something ambient and all-encompassing; I needed to feel connected to _her_, and there's no better way to do that than with music. For the past thirty minutes, my stereo—which has been hardwired to my iPod, because I can never decide on a single CD—has been shuffling through song after song, and it's not a surprise that every melody, every single lyric I hear calls her to mind, ingraining her into my thoughts, branding her into my heart.

For what must be the millionth time this morning, I'm reading the last text message in my inbox. No matter how many times I read it, I can't stop smiling. I feel giddy, so happy that I'm completely indifferent to the fact that my cell phone's battery life is slowly draining. Nothing can bring me down today.

In the midst of my blissful narcosis, a new song begins, filtering through the speakers—"You Rock My World" by Michael Jackson.

When I recognize the melody, my smile grows. It's one of my favorite songs of all time—why we don't do more MJ in Glee, I'll never understand—for numerous reasons. At the onset of the lyrics, words that seem like they could have been drawn out of me like fibers from my heart, warmth settles in my chest. I read the message again.

**Rachel (10:58 PM): ****Goodnight, Quinn. :)**

As ridiculously simple as it is, it has me feeling lighter than a feather.

Last night, after she sang to me, everything felt like a dream. Despite the fact that we were alone together, I wasn't nervous. I couldn't be. I was so in awe of her, so enamored, that I completely forgot about myself. Everything that had been keeping me on edge disappeared, and each time I looked at her, it was like nothing else in the world existed anymore. For what felt like the longest time and simultaneously not long enough, it was just the two of us. We talked about the songs she had painted on her walls; she told me the titles and who sang them. She let me scroll through the her iPod, one of the very first models—the "brick with headphones," Santana had once said; and I couldn't help but think that it was so _Rachel_—so that I could see all of the music she liked to listen to, and I was surprised to find that the majority of it _wasn't_ from musicals. She even told me about her weakness for Italian prima donnas, about her antithetical love of instrumentals.

Even though I never wanted to leave her side, I didn't get to stay with her much longer. It was nearing ten o'clock by that time, and I hadn't talked to my parents at all. The unspoken rule in my house is that, if I'm going to be out past ten, I need to let them know ahead of time—but, by then, it was too late even to consider asking.

Rachel apologized profusely for keeping me, despite my attempts at assuaging her, and Daniel offered to drive me home. Rachel agreed to let me go only after I promised that I would text her when I got there to let her know that my parents didn't kill me for breaking curfew. She stayed with Randy to keep him company. I tried to convince them that I could've walked home to save Daniel the trouble of driving me, since I don't live very far away, but all three of them insisted, and I gave in.

Surprisingly, I was glad that I did. The ride was comfortable in a way that I hadn't expected it to be. On the way to my house, Daniel told me about some of Rachel's first performances; her role in Pre-K chorus, and her solo debut in first grade. He told me about her very first ballet recital, about how crushed she had been when she had to choose between dance classes and vocal lessons because of their conflicting schedules—but before he could tell me any more, he had maneuvered the car into a familiar driveway, and I had to stifle my desire to know more, thanking him for the ride and reluctantly saying goodnight.

When I finally crept into my house, squeezing myself through the front door as quietly as I could, I found that neither of my parents were waiting up for me. The empty glasses and drained bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter explained their absence. I was so overjoyed that I sprinted up the stairs.

Just as I promised, I sent Rachel a text message as soon as I made it into my room.

**(10:16 PM): My parents are passed out. I'm off the hook. Lol.**

She answered me almost immediately. I was working on getting ready for bed, but my phone vibrated before I could even get my shoes off.

**Rachel (10:17 PM): I'm glad. I would have felt terrible if I got you into trouble.**

I assured her that it was alright, and that it would have been even if I had gotten in trouble. Eventually, I managed to get changed, and I had just settled into my bed when she admitted that she was getting tired—which was just about the cutest thing I had ever read via text message.

She told me that she had to wake up early in the morning because her dads were taking her to an all-day music festival in Kenton. She invited me to go with them, but I had to confess—with severe reluctance—that my parents would never let me go so far from town on such short notice.

The entire time we were talking, I dreaded the passing of time. Despite the fact that I've never been a big fan of texting, I didn't want the conversation to end. There were so many things I wanted to tell her. I wanted her to know how _amazing_ it had been to spend the day with her; I wanted her to know how beautiful she really is to me; I wanted her to know how much sharing last night with her really meant—and I worried that she would fall asleep or say goodnight before I had the chance to tell her. Before she got too tired, I finally worked up the nerve to say something, though it wasn't at all what I had been intending.

**(10:36 PM):** **Hey, Rachel?**

**Rachel (10:36 PM): Hmm?**

I must have typed, deleted, and restarted my response nearly ten times.

_Today was the best day I've had in a long time._

_Thank you for letting me in, for letting me know you._

_I wish I had gotten to know you sooner._

_I'm so sorry for everything I've done._

_You are the best person I know._

_I miss you like crazy. I wish you were here._

_I am so in love with you_…__

In the end, I chickened out, and I said what had to be the lamest thing ever.

**(10:39 PM): Thanks for everything.**

I felt so horrible that I held my hands over my face in shame the entire time I was waiting for her to answer me.

**Rachel (10:40 PM): Expressions of gratitude are hardly necessary, Quinn. :P **

I had just begun to reply, attempting to redeem myself, when I was interrupted by another message.

**Rachel (10:40 PM): I had a really nice time with you today.**

Suddenly, I had forgotten that I had ever been upset in the first place.

We talked for a little while longer, about the mistakes in the stitching of her pillows, about the shapes of the birthmarks in my headboard—a rubber duck, an elephant, a music note. She told me that it was lonely in her room without me, and I'd smiled so widely for such a long time that my face hurt by the end of it. Eventually, I realized that the conversation was coming to a close as her responses started to come later and later. She was falling asleep, and as disappointed I was that I would have to let her go, I couldn't find it in me to be upset when it was so adorable.

Though I was still wide awake, not the slightest bit drowsy, wired from all of the excitement and unadulterated happiness coursing through me, I didn't want to keep her any longer. I reached the point where I was going to be okay without her, and we finally said goodnight.

**(10:56 PM): Sweet dreams, Rachel.**

It took everything in me to refrain from adding one of those ridiculous emoticon hearts at the end. I think, in the end, only my potential humiliation stopped me.

Rachel's response came a moment later, and though it was the simplest of things, it meant so much more to me, and it brought another lasting smile to my face.

**Rachel (10:58 PM): ****Goodnight, Quinn. :)**

I've been staring at my phone for fifteen minutes now, replaying our conversation, scrolling through all of the messages. Every single one of them is locked, unable to be erased until I delete them manually. I don't want to lose anything from last night. Even though Rachel doesn't know how I feel about her, even though she doesn't feel the same way about me, I'm going to hold onto it all for as long as I can. It means more to me than she will ever know.

It's all that I've wanted for so long that it still feels like a dream…

With my eyes on the pixilated screen, my fingers itch for the keyboard. I long to talk to her. _Is it too early? _I know she wakes up at the first light of dawn—because she's so adorably proactive like that—but I don't want to come across as desperate as I feel. I don't want to bother her either, or make a move at all without being certain that she wants me to. Today is very much different from last night, a different time entirely; who's to say that things will be the same?

Drawing in a deep breath, I decide against texting her completely, and for the first time in a long while, I drop my phone, letting it fall face down onto my stomach. I have no idea what I would say to her, even if I did start a conversation. "Good morning," is too generic, and despite my mature vocabulary, I've never been the most creative when it comes to articulation. I'm too blunt for my own good. Rather than anything sweet or romantic, I'm more likely to say, "Hey, Rachel. I've been thinking about you non-stop for almost an hour now, so I finally decided to say hello"—and then I'd just wander out into the middle of rush-hour traffic to escape my embarrassment.

I realize, however, that I probably shouldn't interrupt her anyway. She's most likely getting ready, or already on her way out the door for Kenton.

I sigh, but I'm content. I could lie here all day, as long as I have my thoughts to keep me company. Something about her makes me want to lean back, cross my arms behind my head, close my eyes, and smile for absolutely no reason. I can't remember the last time I felt this way.

Actually, I don't know if I have _ever_ felt this way—but I'm not going to let that stop me from enjoying it.

Something tickles my stomach. It takes me a second before I realize that it's my cell phone, still on vibrate from last night. Curious, I lift the humming plastic upright to inspect its illuminated screen. I expect to see an e-mail notification, as they tend to come in around this time of day, for whatever reason, but a different icon is waiting for me. An open envelope. **New** **Text** **Message**.

An infinite multitude of butterflies erupts in my stomach. No one else would be up this early.

_It can't be— It has to be— Is it—?_

I punch the OK button to open the message.

**Rachel (7:45 AM): Rise and shine, sleepyhead. :D**

All I can do is smile. _Rachel._

_Rachel. Rachel. Rachel. Rachel. Rachel._

'_Rise and shine, sleepyhead.'_

I can almost hear her voice; I can almost see the smile on her lips.

A minute ticks by, and I'm just staring at the words, the dopiest grin plastered on my face, wondering how on Earth I got so lucky, when, finally, it occurs to me that I need to say something back. _This is what you've been waiting for, Fabray_._ Answer her! _I search my muddled brain for a response, but, against my best efforts, a clever rejoinder eludes me. _Some straight-A, Advanced Placement student you are. _

I read the message again, and, before I can really think it over, a thought strikes me.

The keys are resilient and tactile under my fingers. They remind me that this is really happening.

**(7:46 AM): I'll shine all you want, but I refuse to rise. :P**

I'm only satisfied with my response for two and a half seconds. I read it over again—after I've already sent it, of course—and roll my eyes at my own stupidity. _If that is the best you can come up with, this is never going to go anywhere. And that emoticon—really? _

_Quinn Fabray, you are the biggest dork in Lima. In the state of Ohio!_

I groan, but just as I bury my face in my arms, my phone buzzes again. I lift it warily.

**Rachel (7:47 AM): That's a bit of a paradox, don't you think? Lol.**

_Oh, she noticed._ _Great. _I pinch my eyes shut. _At least I got her to laugh_…__

I wrack my brain for a way to redeem myself. The comment must have made sense _somehow_ when it came to mind—probably a signal from my subconscious brain, I realize, which is bent on lying in bed all day thinking about her. _Therefore__…__ shining, but not rising?_ It may be a long shot, but it seems logical enough.

**(7:47 PM): Actually, it makes perfect sense. I've been up for a while now; I just haven't gotten out of bed. Lol.**

I let out the breath I've been holding slowly. _From this moment forward, any attempts at being clever are officially forbidden._

**Rachel (7:48 AM): Well, now I feel ridiculous. Lol. I've been practically glued to my phone all morning so I could wake you up on time!**

For an instant, I'm confused. _On time__…__? _I think back to the moment she texted me.

_7:45. I only wake up at 7:45 on—Sunday. Church. _

The thought induces another groan to rise in my throat, this one deeper than the first. _God, is it that time already? _

I used to love church; it was my sanctuary. It was the one place where being popular, keeping up my snobby façade, and stepping all over everyone else didn't matter. In church, I wasn't Quinn Fabray, captain of the Cheerios and "the hottest girl at McKinley." In church, I was just Quinn. I was little Quinn Fabray, the girl who used to wear sundresses with her saddle shoes and ribbons in her hair. The elderly couples that I had known nearly my whole life were always delighted to see me. They used to go on and on to my parents about how lovely I was and how well they had raised me.

Now, they all think I'm the spawn of Satan for having a baby—though whether they hate me more for the fact that I was only sixteen or the fact that it was out of wedlock, I can't tell. Though I've come to terms with my decision and I don't regret it, giving Beth up for adoption certainly didn't sit too well with them either…

_Oh, if they could only see me now._ Having a baby is one thing; falling in love with a girl is another sin entirely.

Except, this time, I really don't give a damn. I am hopelessly in love with Rachel Berry, and I don't feel guilty about _that_ at all.

I do, however, feel guilty about the fact that she's been watching the time for me when I've been wide awake all morning. I hastily compose a response, but I hesitate before sending it, allowing myself the time to read it over first. While it's not the best, it will have to do for now.

**(7:49 AM): I'm sorry! If I'd known you were volunteering to be my alarm clock today, I would have tried to sleep in. Lol.**

My attempt at humor is paper-thin, even to my own eyes, because I know that the words themselves are diametric.

If I knew that she was going to be the one waking me up this morning, I wouldn't have been able to sleep at all.

Even so, after a moment, I realize that I'm still smiling. Despite the fact that I'm going to be imprisoned in the equivalent of a theocratic penitentiary with three hundred God-fearing Christians for what will surely be two of the longest hours of my life, I can't find a single negative emotion that is powerful enough to bring me down. Despite the fact that it's not even eight o'clock in the morning and I'm already making a complete fool of myself, my embarrassment is easily overlooked—especially when my phone buzzes again, pulsing insistently against my palm.

**Rachel (7:49 AM): I'm going to pretend that I woke you up anyway. :P**

Laughter thrums in my chest, the carefree, lighthearted kind that I used to feel as a little girl.

_Rachel Berry, you are the best thing that ever happened to me._

Even though I'll probably never be able to tell her, it makes me happy just thinking it.

My response, when I finally send it, is decidedly lacking, but I'm too high to care.

**(7:50 AM): Lol. Alright. **

Her next message comes in almost immediately. It wouldn't surprise me if she sent it before I even replied.

**Rachel (7:50 AM): So, what had you up so early?**

_You did, _I reply silently.

Though the answer is instant and insistent, I read Rachel's message several times, reaching the first complete standstill I've come to all morning. I'm at a loss. I can't tell her the truth—because, somehow, "I've been obsessing over you all morning," doesn't sound very idyllic—and I can't lie to her either—not that I would ever want to, even if I could—and, since I'm too much of a coward to give her the real answer, there's only one alternative: ambiguity. Implications and thinly veiled confessions have become my specialty; I have being vague down to an art. With my tyrannical parents, simple-minded Saint Finn, and Coach Sylvester hounding me for the past three years, I haven't really had a choice. Consequently, my life is a coin game of extremes; I'm either too blunt or not clear at all.

I don't want things to be that way with Rachel, but I don't really have much of a choice. I can only tell her half of the truth.

The keys dip under my fingers before I realize I'm typing.

**(7:51 AM): Hyperactive cerebral cortex.**

Once my phone notifies me that the message has been sent, I feel like the biggest idiot in Lima.

I stare blankly at the screen. _Wow. Am I a geek or what?_

If I'm lucky, Rachel won't think so. She might even—maybe; possibly; hopefully—think it's endearing.

**Rachel (7:52 AM): Oh, I see. Lol. Penny for your thoughts?**

I press the heel of my palm over my closed eyes. _Now what are you going to say, genius?_

I should know by now that ambiguity only gets me so far.

**(7:53 AM): Not worth it, trust me. Just wondering how I'm going to keep myself occupied today.**

It's not exactly a lie. I _have_ been thinking about what I want to do today; it just so happens that everything I've come up with involves _her_. My only desire is to see her again—whatever the context may be—but I know that I'm just sabotaging my own plans. I don't have any chance of seeing her when she's an hour away in Kenton. I'll be stuck here without her, and since I honestly don't want to do anything else, I'll probably end up right back where I started this morning, lying in bed, smiling like an idiot, without a single thought in my head that doesn't revolve around her, the very neurons in my brain pulsing her name—all of which sounds strangely inviting.

My phone buzzes insistently, drawing me from my thoughts.

**Rachel (7:53 AM): Well, I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time at church. :P**

Her sarcasm is not lost on me, and, not for the first time, I marvel at her humor. I can't believe it took me this long to realize how inherently funny she really is. Last night at dinner, she had me laughing so hard that she brought me to tears—twice.

Before I can gather my thoughts to form a response, the icon for a new message flashes.

**Rachel (7:53 AM): Speaking of which, lazybones, you should be getting ready!**

I laugh. My face is beginning to tire from smiling so much. Even though my muscles protest, I can't force the grin from my lips.

Briefly, I wonder how she knows that I still haven't gotten out of bed, but I decide that it doesn't matter. I can almost hear her voice in the pixilated words, the tease that laces her tone when she's pretending to chastise me. Even though texting is probably one of the most impersonal forms of communication in our generation, I love that I can still see so much of her in our conversation.

I realize a moment later, however, rereading her message, that she's right. I should be getting ready by now; I'm almost ten minutes behind schedule. I should be halfway through a shower—yet I have literally no motivation to get up. At this point, I wouldn't care if I went to church in my pajamas.

As I attempt to will myself into motion—so far, unsuccessfully—I text her back.

**(7:54 AM): Lol. Alright, alright. I'm going! Unhappily, I'll have you know. :P**

Try as I might to convince myself, I don't move. Getting out of bed in the morning is torture on a regular day, and it's even worse today. I don't want to devote even a single instant to anything other than Rachel, which doesn't bode well for the rest of my day. Even though I can't force myself to physically get up, I promised her that I would start getting ready, so I glance across the room, gazing through my open closet doors. I can at least decide what I'm going to wear.

**Rachel (7:55 AM): Oh, you'll survive. It can't be that bad.**

I snort at the thought, abandoning my search. _You have no idea, Rachel._

**(7:56 AM): You'd be surprised. It's almost like a bad reenactment of The Scarlet Letter.**

While it might sound like an exaggeration, it isn't very far from the truth.

**Rachel (7:56 AM): Lol. Hester Quinn? ;P**

The pun induces an uncontrollable fit of laughter. She's so _funny_.

**(7:57 AM): Exactly. Except I've got like ten letters on my chest, not just one. **

_Adultery, pre-marital sex, adoption, coveting another, homosexuality… _

The list goes on and on. The list of sins I _haven't_ committed is probably shorter.

**Rachel (7:58 AM): Strange. I can only recall four, and none of them are A's. **

Confused, I pause. I read the words several times.

_What do you mean? I've practically got 'adulteress' stamped across my forehead._

**(7:58 AM): I'm not following…**

Even though she can't see me, my face warms uncomfortably. I've never liked admitting that something has gone over my head, especially when it comes to Rachel. She's the only person I'm faced with on a regular basis that is intellectually level with me—maybe even superior. I try to think, but I don't even know where to start. Whatever it is she's talking about, it completely eludes me.

When my phone vibrates, I lift it closer to get a better look, searching the screen.

**Rachel (7:59 AM): WMHS. :P**

_WMHS? W…—WMHS. William McKinley High School. My Cheerios uniform._ _Duh_.

I roll my eyes at my own stupidity, but I can't suppress the laughter that rises in my chest.

**(8:00 AM): Clever. :P**

I'm shaking my head in disbelief, still amazed at how funny she can be, when her next text comes in.

**Rachel (8:00 AM): Something tells me you're still not getting ready.**

I cringe. _Busted. _Even so, I can't stop laughing.

**(8:00 AM): That intuition of yours is frighteningly accurate. Lol.**

The laughter dies abruptly in my throat. Suddenly, I realize that all the effort I've been putting into composing myself is futile.

No matter what I do, she'll be able to see right through me. She has always been extremely good at reading people—better than I was ever comfortable with admitting. Even when I played it safe and shut down on myself, she had me pegged. She's always known exactly what was going on, always smart enough to pick up on the little things. Despite everything that people tried to hide from her, she always figured it out for herself in the end—and I realize now, with an unsettling jolt, like being dropped naked into a bucket of ice water, that I don't need to worry about being obvious. She can practically read my mind.

My palms have just begun to sweat with anxiety when my phone buzzes again.

**Rachel (8:01 AM): So I've heard. Lol. But just so you know, I'm staging an intervention. I refuse to talk to you until you're free of prior engagements.**

_Wait—what? No. No!_

My anxiety flares, but for a different reason entirely.

I hastily type a response, determined to change her mind.

**(8:02 AM): Don't you think that's a little harsh?**

While her response is quick and immediate, dread pools in my stomach.

**Rachel (8:03 AM): They call me a diva for a reason, don't they? ;)**

_Is she—? She's teasing me. Isn't she?_

Another text comes in before I can decide.

**Rachel (8:04 AM): Honestly, I just don't want to get you in trouble.**

The dread poisoning my happiness drains away. The fist clenching my stomach releases. I relax.

She's thinking about me, about the Gestapos I call parents. She's trying to protect me from any unnecessary punishment. It's so absolutely _Rachel_ that my heart swells in my chest. Warmth spreads from my fingertips to my toes. _She actually cares._ For so long, that's all I've wanted…

A contented sigh escapes me. It feels like every negative atom in the universe is balanced by Rachel's positivity.

As weightless as I am, it takes me a moment to respond to her message. I don't want to say goodbye; I don't want to go even one second without talking to her. I don't want to spend the day alone, without her, stuck in the oppressive pit of emptiness that is Lima, while she's an hour away, having the time of her life. I want to be there with her. I want to see her eyes light up; I want to see the smile that stretches her lips; I want to hear every breath and giggle that escapes her. I want to share more with her. I want to be a part of her life—but I know that, right now, I don't have the right to ask her for that.

She has already given me so much. She's given me more of herself than I deserve, and for right now, this is enough.

**(8:05 AM): You're right. I should get ready. :(**

I should be disappointed, but I find that the smile on my face has yet to fade. There's only one thing on my mind._ She cares._

When my phone buzzes again, I lift it from my stomach in a blissful daze.

**Rachel (8:05 AM): Try to have a good day, okay? **

_Without you, that's impossible._

**(8:06 AM): Thanks, Rachel. :)**

While I'm waiting for her to respond, the music that I've been deaf to for the past twenty minutes sinks back into my conscious awareness. I've missed several songs by now, lost in my own thoughts, but I don't think I could have come back in at a better time. When I catch onto the words, I close my eyes and hum along.

_You got me feeling high, and I can't step off the cloud…_

I don't open my eyes until I have to read her next message.

**Rachel (8:07 AM): If you need rescued, make sure to call an hour ahead of time! Lol.**

Though my laughter has ceased to sound, so soft that it's inaudible, inside it's infinite. I am ridiculously happy, in the lazy, lethargic way that allows only enough energy to smile—but it doesn't take very much effort to find the will to put my fingers to the keys and text her back.

**(8:07 AM): Haha. Alright. I'll keep that in mind. Enjoy the festival. :)**

_I'll miss you, Rachel…_

**Rachel (8:08 AM): I can practically promise you I will. Lol. I'll talk to you later, Quinn. :D**

With a smile, I drop my phone back onto my stomach. My bed feels more like a cloud. The air is light; time has stopped.

I lift my arms and settle them beneath my head, and breathe deeply, only able to draw a single breath before my hands are digging into the pillows below me, grasping them tightly, and I'm suddenly alive with a fierce giddiness. I just want to laugh and laugh and never stop. I want to run circles around my bed and do cartwheels across the ceiling. I want to jump and dance—I want to sing.

Part of me doesn't believe that everything that just happened was real. _Did she really text me? Did I seriously just spend the last twenty-five minutes talking to her?_ It all feels so surreal. Even though everything was so sharply vivid when it happened, it seems too good to be true.

She can see right through me; I know that. I can't hide anything from her, and I've realized that, by now, she has probably figured out that my erratic behavior means something—to even think that she hasn't would be insulting her intelligence—but even if she has, I can't find it in myself to worry about it. If she knows, it doesn't seem to bother her, and that's fine with me. Until something goes wrong, everything is perfect the way it is.

I'm humming again, following along with the music, when the serenity of the atmosphere is interrupted. The stairs outside my door groan with added weight, the steady measure of someone climbing up to the second floor. My father has barely said a word to me, let alone come up to my room to see me, since I've been let back into the house, so it has to be my mother. I search my bed for the stereo remote, listening for the shuffle of her feet on the carpet. Locating the remote somewhere down by my hip, I grasp it just as she knocks once on my door, and I flip the stereo from auxiliary to radio, a preset alternative Christian station—the only music approved under this roof—as she opens the door.

She leans in, but pauses before she enters. Her surprise is obvious, written plainly on her face. "Oh, you're awake," she says. Her voice isn't yet its smooth, honeyed consistency, still rough from sleep. Standing listlessly in the doorway, she seems lost, her brow knitted with confusion. "I was just coming to wake you up for church."

I can see it in her eyes that she's expecting me to explain why I'm already awake, but I can't exactly tell her that I've been up for over an hour now, thinking nonstop about the girl I'm madly in love with, or that, in fact, I'd been texting her back and forth for twenty minutes. There's no simple way to explain without lying to her face, and I've learned by now that, in these situations, it's best not to say anything. The moment will pass eventually, and it'll be like it she never noticed.

"Thanks, Mom," I say after a moment. I realize that my voice sounds normal—probably because I've been laughing so much. "I'll be ready soon."

For a long while, she doesn't move, nor does she respond. She fixes me with an intense gaze, searching, like she senses that something is out of place. I wait for the customary prickle of discomfort at the back of my neck, but it never comes.

_Well, that's new. _I return her intimidating-mom gaze blankly.

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, perturbed. Finally, she sighs. "I haven't seen you wear that shirt in months."

Surprised, I glance down at myself, at the undersized _Wicked_ T-shirt that hugs my abdomen. Stunted in length, it barely reaches the divot of my belly button, exposing the lowest part of my stomach. I trace my finger along the hem thoughtfully.

Last night, after I slipped into my bedroom, thankfully undetected by both the Nazi and his captive in the next room over, while I was searching through my dresser for something to wear to bed, I found it nestled in the back of my bottom drawer. I had pulled it out, just to look at it, reminded of what Rachel had said at lunch, and once I saw it, I couldn't let it out of my sight. I had to wear it. Even though it was just as small as I remembered, wearing it made me feel more like myself.

I catch myself before I start to smile, pushing it down so my mother doesn't see. When I look back into her expectant eyes, I don't have an explanation, so I don't bother trying to defend myself.

"You really should throw it out already," she says, defeated, sensing that I have no intention of responding. "It hardly fits you anymore."

_That's definitely not going to happen, _I think, but I nod in docile agreement anyway. "I know."

Silence settles for a moment as she pins me with her gaze, almost willing me to confess. I return it, strangely impervious.

Finally, she huffs to herself, and I can almost see her pushing the thoughts from her mind. "Don't be late now," she warns.

I find this newfound immunity to her intimidation tactics empowering. Inwardly joyful, I answer her easily. "I won't."

She nods then, fixing me with one final glance—though I wonder if I can just see the barest quirk of a smile on her lips—before she shuts the door.

A wide smile overcomes my face. This is the best morning I've had in a very long time. Navigating my way around the stereo remote without looking, I flip back to the auxiliary mode, but I have to switch back to radio almost immediately when my mother opens the door again, this time without knocking first.

I turn to her expectantly, trying—albeit lazily—to appear innocent.

"I was thinking of making pancakes," she says, her tone laced with unwarranted gravity. "Would you like some?"

Fighting the urge to burst into laughter, I nod. "Sure."

She nods and disappears once more, and I'm left alone with my thoughts. While I'd rather just lie in bed all day and think about the girl who has stolen my heart, I know that I've put off getting up for far too long. With all the willpower I have, I force myself to sit up, and then to stand. I stretch, letting the new mobility of my body settle in, and pad over to my closet, fixing my gaze on the baby blue button-up that I decided I was going to wear earlier. When they see me, my parents will throw a fit that I'm not wearing a dress, but I honestly couldn't care less what they say about it—and even though I'm not looking forward to the glares and sneers, the snide remarks and hushed comments that await me in church, it doesn't ruin my mood in the slightest. I pull the shirt from the closet. One thought of Rachel, and the smile is back on my face.

* * *

><p>Note: Kenton is supposedly a forty-five minute drive from Lima. I've never done it myself, so I wouldn't know, but if I'm wrong, please blame Google Maps, not me. :P<p>

Note: Quinn still may seem a little bipolar when it comes to all of these conflicting emotions—but aren't we all when we're in love with someone and trying to hide it?

Feel free to review if you'd like, good or bad. (I won't pander you or force you into it; I've heard implications that readers find it annoying.)

*in my best announcer voice* "Next time on _Everything I Need_: Quinn has a bad day at church. Can Rachel make it better?" :)


	7. My Beautiful Rescue

Well, everybody, here you go! Chapter Seven, somewhat on time. Lol. I had to bust my ass to get it done, but here it is.

It starts out a little slow—mainly because Rachel isn't directly involved at first—but it picks up after Quinn gets out of church. I hope it's not too terrible; and, ahead of time, I beg you to be lenient and forgive any mistakes or moments of awkwardness. For some reason, this chapter put up a fight, and it didn't agree with the way I wanted it to be written.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy it. :D

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday, July 10th, 2011<strong>

* * *

><p>Church this morning was no different than it has been every other Sunday this month. Ever since my mother was able to convince my father that I should be allowed to start accompanying them to the morning services again, I have been the undisputed center of attention, subjected endlessly to narrowed eyes and blatant contempt. By now, I've given up the hope for anything else. I've come to expect it, and I was far from disappointed today; my fellow Christians have hardly grown tired of their charade.<p>

As soon as my parents led me through the excessively ornamented double doors of St. Andrew's Fellowship, every eye in the room turned to me. Ongoing conversations ceased; people began to whisper to themselves—and, as much as it used to grate on my nerves, I couldn't help but laugh to myself, because, today, it all reminded me of Rachel's comment from this morning. The moment I set foot on their burgundy, velveteen carpet, I became Hester Quinn, the illicit harlot, stamped with so many scarlet letters that I could teach a child the alphabet.

Everybody had something to say. My parents and I were met through the doors by Mr. and Mrs. Kennish, with their vindictive teenage twins at their side, and in the best of their sickly sweet voices, they praised my parents for handling their 'situation' so well. The Davidsons, dressed to impress in their sharp suits and pressed white collars, spoke to the pastor as we passed by, mentioning, with pointed glances in my direction, that their youngest daughter had just sworn herself into a celibacy club; and then the Masons, shamelessly flaunting their eldest angel Melanie, a twenty-two year-old Harvard graduate engaged to an aerodynamics major, conversed lively about their plans for her wedding in the fall and the children she's hoping for once they've settled into their lives together.

For my part, I endured the onslaught in silence. My mother, statuesque in her removed composure, stood dutifully by my father's side through it all. He had made it very clear to her before I was let back into the fellowship that she wasn't to protect me from them. In his eyes, I haven't yet endured the full extent of my punishment, and I think, at this point, he believes that I may _never_ truly redeem myself; I deserve whatever they happen to throw at me—and, sometimes, I think, that maybe he's right. Maybe I am beyond repentance—but my mother doesn't seem to agree. Every now and then, when the conversation turns sour, fixating on me and all the mistakes I've made, she spares me the softness of her gaze, sharing her sympathy, the barest hint of a frown breaking her perfected smile. Yet, even then, she never argues. In the midst of my verbal crucifixions, she hardly speaks. She obeys my father, and I don't have the heart to blame her for it. I've never bothered fighting either. The most I've ever been able to do has been to bow my head under the weight of guilt and contrition, and keep my mouth shut. We both surrender.

Yet, today, even though every variety of glare, sneer, and snide remark imaginable was directed my way, I couldn't find it in myself to care. Today, all their animosity was strangely enjoyable. I could only laugh inside every time I met their supercilious gazes—concealing my mirth behind the mask of exaggerated shame that was demanded of me, simply to play along with their game—and I would think of Rachel, imagining what she would say about them when I told her about it later.

In actuality, during the two hours I spent locked in the soulless void of St. Andrew's, nearly every thought that came to mind was devoted to _her_.

Several times, I found myself wondering what she was doing, right then, at that particular moment. I imagined her bouncing in her step as she passed through the rows of pavilions and the clusters of performers at the festival, sandwiched happily between her fathers as they walked along; I imagined her drawing their attention to things that caught her eye as they passed, gushing over the excellence of the music at every turn. I wondered at times if she was thinking of me; if she missed talking to me—or if I had even crossed her mind. Though, for the most part, I thought back to our conversation from earlier this morning. I remembered the butterflies that had flooded my stomach when my phone buzzed and I saw that she had texted me; I remembered the teasing nicknames she had used to describe me, the subtle wit underlying her jokes; I remembered how good it had felt just to talk to her, to, somehow, miraculously, know that she was _enjoying_ talking to me. The combination of lingering emotion and euphoric thought put a smile on my face so permanent that even the pastor's vehemence regarding the sanctity of marital intercourse didn't cause it to falter.

I was ensconced safely in my own little bubble of happiness. I barely heard a word of the sermon, other than the ones that were practically hurled at me from the pulpit. Yet, even those didn't bother me. Segregated from my parents, surrounded by other teenagers and younger children, I sat in the second pew, blissfully absent from both my body and the experience as a whole, lost in thoughts of Rachel—which was a sin in itself, I'm sure, considering my location at the time. Whispers were thrown back and forth all around me, but I might as well have been deaf for all that I actually heard.

Before I knew it, people to my left and right were rising from their seats, forming groups and shaking hands, beginning to converse. Their children sneered down at me, abandoning their own seats to join them and laughing as they passed me by. I was the last from my pew to get up and the last to reach my parents, both of whom were standing and conversing with the pastor by the pulpit. When I took my place behind them, I caught several familiar words over the collective murmur condensing around me—'lesson,'reformed,' and 'ashamed' among them—but I wasn't actually listening.

My attention was elsewhere, directed in its entirety to my cell phone, which had just vibrated insistently in my pocket.

Despite the fact that my parents frowned upon the use of technology in church more than skipping grace before dinner, I couldn't resist the urge to check. I had to see. Drawing my phone discretely from my pocket, I searched the illuminated screen. My heart began to beat painfully against my ribcage, thumping like a bass drum in my chest. **New Text Message**, my phone had informed me, and I began to smile before I even opened it.

Logically, I knew I was getting ahead of myself. It was already noon then, and it could have been anyone. Santana had probably just woken up, and Brittany could have been bored to death. On the off chance, with my luck, it could have even been Sam or Finn. I knew that, and still, something was telling me that it was _her_.

I could literally _feel_ that it was Rachel. My nerves were humming beneath my skin.

When I opened the message, instead of text, I was surprised to find a picture. Several men in their thirties and forties were gathered together atop a slab of concrete, a large sidewalk, I presumed, dressed sharply in their monochromatic button-up shirts and dark vests, all of them with matching fedoras and brightly colored bow ties—all of which I could only think at that moment looked like hand-me-downs from Mr. Schue. Together, they were all situated around an assortment of kitchen apparatuses, seated on buckets and trash cans and using spoons and spatulas and wooden utensils to play them. It was a pots-and-pans band, performing in quick, animated fashion.

Just below the picture, there was a collection of words more extensive than any of the texts Rachel had sent me before, and I read them with nervous anticipation.

**Rachel (12:16 AM): The festival is so amazing! You'd love all the street performers, Quinn. Everybody here is so talented. I think I'm in love. If Broadway won't have me, this is where I'll be! Lol. I hope church hasn't been too terrible. Wish you were here. :D**

Once the words sunk in, I realized that I was smiling like an idiot. '_Wish you were here,' _I repeated to myself. My body tingled from my fingertips to my toes.

I had pushed the button to reply immediately, aching to talk to her, but my attention was drawn away from my phone as I was suddenly urged into motion. My mother's hand was on my elbow, and she was steering me gently toward the double doors behind us. Briefly disoriented, I sought her eyes, but she could return my gaze for only a moment before glancing at my father, who was stalking off ahead of us. His back was stiff, his shoulders tense. When I met her eyes again, my mother fixed me with a pointed stare, and I sighed, defeated. I didn't have to ask what the look was for. With severe—almost painful—reluctance, I put away my phone.

I decided that I would have to wait until I was safely locked in my bedroom to text Rachel back.

Before my father could lead my mother and I out of the church, however, he was stopped by one of his coworkers, a neighbor who lives a couple of houses down on our street. He and his wife conversed with my parents for several agonizing minutes, while I stood silent and motionless behind them, completely deaf to their conversation.

Waiting for that moment to end, I was going crazy. It felt like my phone was burning a hole in my pocket.

My self-restraint was beginning to wear thin when my mother again took my arm, urging me to follow her out of the church and to the car. Apparently, the coworker and his wife had successfully browbeaten my parents into accompanying them for lunch.

While I inwardly cringed at the fact that I would have to suffer through another hour with them—another hour without being able to talk to Rachel—I was delighted to see my father so easily forced into something he obviously didn't want to do. I'd just caught sight of the vein pulsing angrily in his neck, smirking to myself in the back seat of his pretentious BMW, before I slipped away from myself completely and my thoughts were once again monopolized by the girl of my dreams.

Due to this, the supposed lunch we shared with our neighbors didn't make it into my conscious brain. I barely remember eating. I'm not even sure what I ordered. All I know is that time is passing _far_ too slowly.

As soon as the scenery rushing past my window began to look familiar, my mind freed itself of its stupor, and I've been waiting for the past five minutes of the ride in breathless excitement, bouncing my leg fervently, as if my kinetic motion can somehow physically will time to move forward. When our extensive driveway finally comes into view, my heart lurches into my throat, my stomach contracting into a tightly wound ball of excitement.

I'm out of my seat and on my feet the moment the car stops moving, but my parents are slow to exit their respective doors. I agonize over their downtempo movement.

_Two minutes, _I think to myself as I follow them toward the house. _Two minutes, and then you're free. Two minutes, and then you'll have Rachel._

I try to measure my breaths, counting to five each way, holding each inhale and straining each exhale. I do my best to keep calm, but once I step inside, the moment I cross the threshold, it takes all the willpower I possess not to push past my mother and father and bolt up the stairs leading to my bedroom. My parents are in no hurry to be anywhere, taking their time with what seems to me exaggerated leisure, and I shuffle impatiently behind them. _Why are you two moving so __**slow**__? _

I'm so anxious, I feel like I could run laps around Ohio Stadium.

Finally, my father disappears into the den, and my mother turns the other way, moving for the kitchen. My path is clear.

_Thank God! _I step forward abruptly, relieved, but I manage to catch myself before I lose my composure entirely, curbing my desire to take the stairs at a full on sprint. I've just started heading up, meticulously pacing myself, when I'm halted by my mother's voice.

"Quinnie?" she calls, before I can even reach the third step.

I suck in a long breath, closing my eyes. _You've got to be kidding me. I'm __**this**__ close… _

My mother retraces her steps around the partition that leads into the kitchen, and I attempt to keep a straight face as I turn down to meet her eyes. She already has an apron in her hands, and she slips it over her head as she moves into the foyer. She regards me with compassion and kindness—a compulsive response to the torture that I've had to endure every Sunday for the past month. With her arms behind her back, tying the apron securely around her waist, she peers up at me, giving me her most apologetic motherly gaze. "Do you have any thoughts on dinner, sweetie?" she asks with excessive affection.

While I'm touched by her concern, a larger part of me is incredulous.

_Dinner, Mom? That's really what you stopped me for? _

_The girl of my dreams is waiting for me to text her back, and you ask me about __**dinner**__? _

_Do you have any idea how much I do __**not**__ care about food right now? _

I feel somewhat guilty for my reaction, but I can't help it. Where Rachel is involved, I feel like some sort of addict, suffering the most desperate of withdrawals. There aren't many things I wouldn't do for her—whether it's a good thing or not.

When I finally make an effort to respond to my mother's incongruous question, I can only shake my head vaguely. "Anything is fine with me," I promise her.

_We could have bread and butter for all I care! Just, please, please, **please**, let me go to my room._

She rests her hands on her hips, holding my eyes in an almost pleading manner. "You don't want _anything_?"

"Nope."

"You're sure?"

I nod. "Positive."

I return her gaze for another moment, offering her a small smile, before turning back for the stairs.

Though I'm unable to see her any longer, I can tell by the silence below me that she hasn't yet returned to the kitchen. I pace myself, trying to both evade her suspicion and keep myself under control. Though it works at first, once the shuffle of her movement trails away and the first cabinet in the kitchen creaks open, I can't help myself anymore. I jog the last dozen stairs, pivoting around the banister on the second floor landing and just barely passing it without hip-checking myself. I pull my phone out of my pocket as I push into my bedroom door, navigating instinctively to Rachel's last text.

I guide the door shut behind me with my heel and smile widely as I read the last line again. _'Wish you were here.'_

Though I'm dying to find something more comfortable to wear—_anything_ other than these pants, which feel more like cardboard than khakis—before I even bother changing, I start a new message.

My fingers tremble against the keys with excitement.

**(2:07 PM): Hey, I got your text! Having fun?**

It's almost two hours late now, but, hopefully, she won't mind.

I place my phone carefully on the edge of my bed. Waiting for her to respond, I have to force myself to remain calm, and to move slowly, because anticipation is coursing so intensely through my limbs that I could practically rip my clothes to shreds in an effort to remove them. I probably wouldn't care, if that actually were to happen—but I do my best to suppress my excitement anyway, attempting to preserve the last modicum of dignity that I have left. I unfasten each button on my shirt with deliberate precision, breathing slowly through my nose. _Relax, Fabray, _I tell myself._ It's just a text message. _Yet, working the last button free, I realize that it really doesn't matter.

_Who are you kidding? She could mail you a rock and you'd still be freaking out._

I shrug my shirt from my shoulders, catching it behind me, and I've just opened my drawer to find something else more comfortable when the familiar hum of vibration reaches my ears. Immediately, I'm overcome with irrepressible giddiness. If I weren't so out of practice, I could do a backflip out of sheer excitement.

Refraining myself from literally diving for my bed, I cross the room—still a little more quickly than I'd like to admit—and retrieve my phone. I open the waiting message, sucking in a deep breath. Vaguely, somewhere, buried deep in the back of my mind, there is the realization that I'm standing in the middle of my room topless, save for my bra, but I really couldn't care less. Nothing takes precedence over the pixilated words displayed on the miniature screen of my cell phone.

**Rachel (2:08 PM): I can't even begin to explain how much! Quinn, you would love it here.**

I'm sure I would, but not because of the music or the street performers. I would love being _anywhere_, as long as I was with her.

Reading the message again, I can't help the jolt of happiness in my chest when my eyes pass over my name. Despite my insistence to change it once I started high school, part of the process of reinventing myself, I've never been particularly fond of the alias I created. That, coupled with the fact that Rachel has never called me by anything other than 'Quinn' before, suggests that it shouldn't feel any different to see it there, beaming back at me, but the fact that it's _her_, of all people, saying it—_now_, of all times—somehow makes it special.

My face is already beginning to feel sore from smiling.

Once I put my fingers back to the keys, I realize that I'm less hesitant about what I'm going to say than I was this morning. I feel surer of myself, like I've reached the point of internal equilibrium I needed. Knowing that she thought about me—even for an instant—while she's been gone has fueled my confidence through the roof.

**(2:10 PM): I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. :)**

I feel lighter than air.

Retrieving the T-shirt I had abandoned, which is hanging forgotten over the edge of the drawer I'd found it in, I pull it over my head. While it has been a favorite of mine for a while, I'm disappointed that it isn't as comfortable or as inherently comforting as my _Wicked_ shirt. For now, however, this will have to do.

I throw my button-up into the laundry basket behind me, but before I can find a pair of jeans, my phone buzzes again.

I laugh, with a smile on my face so wide that my muscles protest. _I'm never going to get changed at this rate._

**Rachel (2:11 PM): Thanks. I really wish you had been able to come with me.**

Somehow, I manage to keep my feet on the ground, but in my head, I'm pulling all of the tricks I've ever known. For the second time, she's admitting that she wants me there. She wants me to be there with her. My heart is screaming in my chest, running rampant like a four year-old at an amusement park._ Could this day get any better?_

Locked in my euphoric stupor, I don't have a chance to answer her before my phone notifies me about a new message.

**Rachel (2:11 PM): Oh! I totally forgot. How was church?**

Shaking my head, I laugh to myself. I haven't realized until now how adorable it is—or how much I love it—when she sends a second message before I can answer the first one. I've always hated being interrupted, but Rachel's habitual afterthoughts only serve to make me smile like an idiot. They remind me that I'm talking to _her_.

Though I have a nearly infinite repertoire of things I could tell her about my morning—everything from the Kennishes to the Davidsons to the pastor—I decide to spare her the details for now. If everything goes well, I'll have plenty of time to tell her about it later.

**(2:12 PM): I survived. Barely. Lol.**

I pull the first pair of jeans I can find from my drawer, toeing off my shoes and shedding my tailored khaki slacks as I hop into the worn material blindly. My conscious attention is devoted to my phone, which I've moved to a more easily accessible place on my dresser. I have just enough time to throw my discarded pants in the laundry before it vibrates again and I'm summoned back to the conversation I've been waiting for all day.

**Rachel (2:13 PM): Was it really as bad as you said this morning? :(**

As I read the words, my rushed anticipation is soothed into stillness. The whole world seems to soften and warm, her concern enveloping me like an embrace, a security blanket. I suddenly feel small, surrounded by her. She's so much more than I ever knew before, so much deeper than I could ever see, and I want to drown in her.

Knowing that she cares, I can't help the smile that settles on my lips, or the steady thump of my heart in my chest. _Rachel Berry, I am so in love with you. _

The way I feel right now, I could be bundled the in warmest blankets, buried in the softest bed. Everything is safe. I feel cared for—maybe even loved—but the feeling is internal, ethereal, and I need something physical to cement it into existence and anchor it to the real world, to keep it from disappearing. I delay answering her only long enough to draw one of my favorite hoodies from the depths of my closet, and I drape it over my shoulder until I have an opportunity to put it on.

When I send my response, I decide to be honest with her.

**(2:14 PM): It was pretty close, but it actually didn't bother me today. **

I push my arms into the loose comfort of my jacket's sleeves and pull it over my head, sinking into its warmth.

As I collapse onto my bed, I fall back into that perfect, blissful world I'd been so deeply immersed in this morning—the world where I'm completely untouchable. I feel happy; free. It feels like all this time I've been locked away inside myself, and Rachel is showing me what it's like to feel everything that I've never let myself feel before. Part of me thinks that this world I'm in, this perfect place, is _her_ world. She's letting me into her life, and I think, just maybe, she's pulling me out of the prison of my own. She's giving me a second chance, an opportunity to be the person I should have been all along.

Quinn Fabray, the head cheerleader, queen bee, and hottest girl at McKinley is a stranger to me.

By letting me know _her_, Rachel is helping me shed the painted faces that I've been wearing and showing me who I really am. Only a day with her, twenty-four hours, and she's already helping me become a better person—and I'm starting to think that, maybe, she has been for a lot longer, and I just haven't realized it until now.

As I wait for her to respond, I wish more than anything that I had something of hers here with me, something tangible, something I could hold onto, because I have no greater urge than to pull something into my arms and squeeze for all that I'm worth. The closest thing I have is my phone, and it's too small to be effective.

Still, when it buzzes insistently in my palm, it brings a smile to my face.

**Rachel (2:15 PM): Good. :D**

Though it's a simple response, a single word, I feel like I'm on top of the world. A new notification flashes.

**Rachel (2:15 PM): You were gone for a long time. :(**

I smile. I know that I should tell myself not to read too far into it; I should tell myself that she has been waiting for me to text her all day so she could tell me about all of the amazing people she's met and the music she's heard at the festival—but I don't. Right now, I'll take it the way I want to.

Right now, it means that she cares enough to notice when I'm gone.

**(2:16 PM): I'm sorry. My parents dragged me out to lunch with our neighbors.**

After my phone notifies me that my message has been sent, I gaze at the screen thoughtfully. There's more that I want to say. I realize that it has the potential to be a disaster, as irrational and impulsive as it is, and it could be a bad idea altogether, but, right now, I'm tired of being Switzerland. I decide to be bold for once.

**(2:16 PM): Did you miss me? :P**

As I reread the message, I don't bother attempting to delude myself. If I were face to face with her, those words would have never left my lips—I'd have choked on them before I ever found the skills to articulate them eloquently—but I've put them out there now, and when my phone buzzes insistently, bearing Rachel's response, I don't regret it.

**Rachel (2:17 PM): I have, actually! Lol. I wish you could be here.**

My chest is tight, contracting in the most exquisite way. As silly as it sounds, I feel like the Grinch. Every minute I talk to her, my heart leaps another size larger, like you could hold an X-Ray lens up to my chest and watch as it grows. This is the third time she's said that she wishes I were there with her, and I'm so happy that I don't even care how pathetic or pitiful it is that I'm keeping count. As long as she keeps saying it, I'll keep counting.

I realize as I try to formulate a response that this is one of those opportunities that I always let slip by. This is the point where, so many times in the past, I have shut down, where I haven't tried, for fear of failing. But, right now, I'm fearless.

**(2:18 PM): You'll have to tell me all about it when you get back. **

Even though it's only an implication, it's a bigger step than I would have taken before, and I'm proud of myself.

I honestly couldn't have asked for a better day today; even given the opportunity, I couldn't have hoped for anything more—but, as happy as I am, as perfect as things have been, there's still a big part of me that wants nothing more than to _see_ her, and it won't be satisfied until I do. It doesn't matter where, when, or for how long. All that matters is that I see her.

Ever omniscient, somehow directly tuned in to my thoughts, Rachel seems to understand.

**Rachel (2:18 PM): Are you busy tomorrow?**

_I'll never be too busy for you, Rachel._

**(2:19 PM): Not at all.**

Though I'm prepared to wait, her next message is quick to arrive.

**Rachel (2:20 PM): Spend the day with me? :D**

There is a part of me, when my eyes transmit the words to my brain and I'm able to decode their meaning, that liquefies. In this moment, feel like I don't truly exist. Everything is too perfect, too foreign, too much like a dream to be real. Yet, even if it is, even if I am dreaming, I'm content to sleep just a little bit longer.

_As long as you're here, I never want to wake up._

Safe behind the barriers between us, the miles from me to her, hiding behind the screens that convey what we want to say, it's easier for me to answer her honestly, to say what I feel, and though I quiver to the core with nervous excitement at the prospect of seeing her again, when I put my fingers to the keys, I don't have any qualms about admitting it.

**(2:22 PM): I'd love to. :)**

Right now, it doesn't bother me that I'm being obvious.

**Rachel (2:22 PM): Really?**

The question is jolting, abruptness, and it makes me pause.

_How could she not know? _

From the very first moment I laid eyes on her yesterday, I've been bombarded by so many feelings. I've been so overcome with incomprehensible happiness and innumerable nameless emotions that it feels like my body can't physically contain them anymore. I'm an open book, a consequence of the fact that I'm too full to close—and at any other time, Rachel can see right through me. She can read me backwards, sideways, and inside out. Try as I might, I can only hide so much; the rest of it is broadcast to the world on every frequency known to man. It doesn't seem possible that none of it has made it through to her.

For the first time in a long while, I feel lost, unsure of what to say. I can only assure her that I meant what I said.

**(2:23 PM): ****I wouldn't lie to you, Rachel.**

Though I fight desperately against it, negativity begins to creep in, a hazy shadow eating at the edges of my blissful dream world as realization dawns. _She doesn't trust me. _

When I think back to all the times I've lied to her before, I'm reminded that she has every right not to. She has every right to question me—and, more than that, she _should_. She should question me; she shouldn't trust me. I don't deserve her trust. I haven't done anything to earn it.

This is the first time since last night that I've felt so displaced, so unworthy of her. My heart sinks like lead, crushing the air from my lungs. I start to believe all of the things they've been saying about me in church. Darkness inches in, infecting and corroding my happiness, threatening to overcome it completely. When my phone vibrates in my hand, the jolt of excitement I've felt all day is absent. I lift it from my stomach, listless, my limbs weighed with defeat—and though I train my eyes on the screen the way I'm supposed to, it's habitual, perfunctory.

Yet, the moment the words make their way into my brain, the darkness threatening to engulf me is incinerated from the inside out.

**Rachel (2:24 PM): I trust you, Quinn. ~3**

Suddenly, the skies are blue again, the clouds silver and shining; everything is absolutely perfect, because there it is—the one thing I haven't realized I've been waiting for: a heart. A _heart_. She slips it in so nonchalantly, with such ease, like it's no big deal, like it's nothing, but it's everything—_everything_—to me.

'_I trust you, Quinn'—signed with a heart._

When my phone vibrates again, it still hasn't sunken in. I open the message.

**Rachel (2:24 PM): I have dance in the morning, but I'm free after eleven. :)**

Despite the tingling nervelessness of my fingers and the incomprehensible mess of thoughts that resounds in my head, I am coherent enough to realize that this message is a distraction. Rachel sent it now on purpose, interrupting me before I had the chance to answer the first one in an attempt to tell me that I don't _have_ to answer it—because, somehow, she knows that I'll never be able to, no matter how much time she gives me to respond. She's tuned in again, reading me like sheet music, like my thoughts and feelings aren't written in my own language, but in hers, a sequence of notes and melodies without cohesion; and it's chaotic and illogical, and sometimes antithetical, but she follows it intuitively, in a way that comes naturally to her.

As I read the message again, everything is finally settling in. The butterflies return to my stomach, gathering slowly. One by one, they whisper into existence, their wings no longer fragile, but strong. They create a powerful frenzy within me, a surge of exhilaration that breathes life into my listless body, and I'm once again awake.

_She sent me a heart… A __**heart**__! A heart after my name!_

I feel alive. Try as I might, I can't get it out of my mind, and as I beam at nothing in particular, I finally respond to her.

**(2:25 PM): Time and place, and I'm there. **

The fierce giddiness I'd felt this morning has returned, and I'm so happy that my snarky inner monologue returns, mocking my choice of words. _Who do you think you are, Fabray—Danny Zuko? _Even so, I don't care. If I sound like I'm trying too hard to be cool or I'm giving too much away, it doesn't matter.

_She sent me a __**heart**__!_

I scan her next message with renewed enthusiasm.

**Rachel (2:26 PM): Lol. 11:30, the park on Windsor.**

Windsor Park is almost exactly halfway between Rachel's house and my own, only a ten minute walk, and it's fine with me—but, honestly, I wouldn't have cared where she chose to meet, even if it was all the way across town.

Anywhere she wants to go, I want to be there.

**(2:26 PM): Okay. :D**

Thoughts race through my mind, fuel-injected, jet-powered. I imagine everything from what she'll be wearing, to what I'm going to wear, to what we'll do, to where we'll end up going afterward, but everything, eventually, all comes back to the fact that I get to see her again. I could run rampant through my bedroom, flipping and twirling and spinning and singing with sheer excitement—all the while, inwardly screaming, _Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow!_—but I force myself to remain in bed.

I cross my arms over my face, trying, and probably failing, to hide the gigawatt smile on my lips. When my phone vibrates, tickling my stomach, I begin to laugh.

**Rachel (2:28 PM): Can I tell you a secret?**

Immediately reminded of the other secrets she's told me so far, I'm almost desperate to hear this one. I'll listen to anything she's willing to tell me. Now that I've finally gotten to the point where she's letting me in, sharing herself with me, I want to know everything about her.

**(2:28 PM): Of course you can.**

As I wait, my body hums with anticipation. Not only is my phone on vibrate—apparently, I am too.

**Rachel (2:29 PM): I've never really liked texting, but I think you're changing my mind. Lol.**

I have to laugh, because I've been feeling the same way. Before I started talking to Rachel, I avoided texting like the plague. Whenever Santana or Brittany would text me—or on the rare, anomalous occasion that I was talking to Sam or Finn—I could only stand to trade three or four messages without dropping the conversation. Words are remarkably precious to me, and they have been since elementary school, when I first learned to read, which is why I excel at English more than any other subject, and partly why I love music so much. Words are powerful, more powerful than people give them credit for, and the fact that everybody seems so intent on destroying them to save time drives me absolutely insane.

Santana always had something to say about my perfect grammar. Everyone has said something about it, actually, at some point or another—everybody, that is, except for Rachel, who types and texts exactly the way I do.

When I make up my mind to answer her, I begin, but backtrack half way through, unsure if I should continue.

_Are you really going to do this?_

Impulsion urges me forward, while apprehension holds me back. Taking a deep breath, I decide to go for it.

**(2:32 PM): Same here, actually. I like that you're so articulate. **

Despite the fact that it's a somewhat insignificant remark, my face warms uncomfortably. I feel vulnerable, exposed, like I've just handed her the diary that contains my most personal secrets and my deepest desires. Having admitted something that I like about her, I feel forward, like I've suddenly leapt across the line that I've been treading. It may be a small confession, but it means more when said aloud—though, when Rachel responds, it doesn't seem like she minds the implications.

**Rachel (2:33 PM): Lol. I'll admit, it's nice to be able to talk without having to explain myself all the time. **

Even though I'm nearly petrified by my anxiety, I can identify with her. I love Santana and Brittany to death, and everybody else in Glee to some extent, but more often than not, I feel that our brains don't function on the same wavelength.

Before I can extend my sympathy, desperate to empathize with her and bury my confession, another text interrupts me.

**Rachel (2:33 PM): You make much better conversation than Finn. Than anyone, really.**

The comment is nonchalant, even with the lack of 'laughter'—implying that, maybe, somehow, she's _serious_—yet it still hits me hard. _Than anyone? _Despite my attempts to brush it off, my elation is persistent and obstinate.

_She likes talking to me more than __**anyone**__? _I try not to read too far in to it.

**(2:34 PM): Lol. I just happen to know proper English.**

Despite my efforts to play it off, in my head, I'm raving like a lunatic._ More than __**anyone**__!_

Just as I begin commending myself about my victory over Finn, Rachel texts me back.

**Rachel (2:34 PM): I like that about you.**

My raving is thoroughly and effectively silenced.

The message is completely devoid of emoticons, laughter, and any visible sign of a humor, and I realize that she's serious.

It's a plain statement, mundane, when I really think about it—she only likes the fact that I use proper grammar, for Heaven's sake—but my stomach does a backflip, regardless, clenching and quivering and seeming to drop to the floor all at once.

The mere fact that we've reached a point where we can admit the things that we like about each other is devastating. It's an almost intimate affair, personally invasive and thrilling in a way that shakes me deeply. _Rachel, you're killing me_…__

Staring in lingering awe at the boldfaced words, I don't know what to say. I hesitate, searching my muddled brain, and like always, she knows.

**Rachel (2:35 PM): Hey, Quinn?**

I'm grateful for the distraction.

**(2:35 PM): Yeah?**

When my phone vibrates, and her response is decidedly perplexing.

**Rachel (2:36 PM): Tell me something about you.**

The request surprises me, because it feels to me like she already knows so much. She can read me so easily, so astutely, that she's practically telepathic. I feel like everything that I've tried so hard to keep inside is written in neon colors on my forehead, like my heart is pinned to my sleeve and singing aloud, with no regard for whoever might hear it.

What else is there to tell her?

I realize that there are still plenty of things she doesn't know about me, things she _couldn't_ know—the fact that my hair didn't really start growing until I was three years old, for example; or the way I used to bounce incessantly whenever I was forced to sit still; or how I always painted my nails pink on Friday nights after my mother got back from her weekly manicure—but none of the things that come to mind are things I particularly want to tell her. She doesn't need to know that I was a bald little girl with ADHD and a mommy complex.

Time continues to tick by, and I wrack my brain for something useful. _Think of something, Fabray!_

Before I even consciously make the decision, I'm typing a response, and I've sent it before I really get a chance to think it over.

**(2:40 PM): Okay. I have a freckle on my left elbow.**

I stare blankly at the screen. _Really? _The question is rhetorical, incredulous. _You really just told her about your freckle? _

_She asks you to tell her something about you—one of the biggest chances you'll ever get to show her that you're worth the trouble of getting to know—and you tell her about a __**freckle**__?_

_You… I don't even know what to say to you._

At the moment, being an ostrich sounds tremendously appealing. I want to bury my head in the ground.

**Rachel (2:41 PM): Lol. I've noticed. Try again.**

_What? _Surprised, I shimmy upwards a couple of inches, searching for better leverage against my pillows. _Is she serious?_

**(2:41 PM): No way. Really?**

I don't even think my own mother knows about that freckle.

**Rachel (2:42 PM): I told you I knew more than you thought I did. ;)**

A wink. She's teasing me—but I know there has to be some degree of truth to it. I'm sure she's been able to piece together a lot about me, by now. She probably knows more than she's willing to admit. Silent and immobilized as I lay in my bed, staring down at my waiting phone, I'm both shocked and thrilled that she's cared enough to pay such close attention—she noticed something as insignificant as a blemish on the skin of my elbow, after all—and I wonder just how much she _does_ know.

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><p>Note: I have no idea what the actual name of Quinn's church is in the show. St. Andrew's just sounded good. Lol.<p>

Note: Since, for whatever reason, the Doc Manager doesn't allow less-than symbols to be displayed with submitted text, the symbol has been replaced with a tilde). This would be why, when Rachel texts Quinn a heart, it is displayed as ~3.

Note: The aforementioned note is actually quite enraging. -_-

Note: I'm not sure if this all came across the way I wanted it to (as intimate or as personal as it seemed, to me at least), but I decided to run with it anyway. I hope I succeeded, even in the slightest.

Feel free to let me know what you think!

The next chapter will pick up immediately after this one—and things get even more personal. ;)


	8. Ready and Waiting To Fall

So, this was supposed to be somewhat of a mini-chapter, just some late night fluff before the big day—but I ended up adding about two-thousand words to it at the last minute, so it's not so mini anymore. Hope you guys don't mind. Lol. For everyone who's been waiting, I'm really sorry it's taken me so long. I've been crazy busy lately, as this post itself can contest. (I've never posted on a weekend, but I haven't really had much of a choice in the matter.) I apologize to anyone that I've kept waiting, but I hope at least a few of you are still hanging in there, and I hope that this chapter doesn't let you down.

As always, thank you guys so much for all your support, and I hope everybody enjoys it. Let me know what you think.

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><p><strong>Sunday, July 10th, 2011<strong>

* * *

><p>When I finally thought of something that seemed remotely significant—something that had even the slightest chance of somehow eluding Rachel's impeccable intuition and perceptivity—and inherently less ridiculous than the fact that I have a <em>freckle<em> on my elbow, I answered her request by admitting that my favorite color, despite what everyone has come to believe, isn't yellow, but gray. Though I mentally cheered for myself when she responded with surprise, and I smiled as she commented that gray was a far undervalued color—for my benefit, I'd assumed—my face grew increasingly warmer when she asked me to explain my fascination with it.

Like before, even though she couldn't see me, I flushed so deeply that even the tips of my ears burned when I replied that, for some reason, it had always had a strange way of soothing me when I was upset; and I even went so far as to tell her that it reminded me of rainclouds, and of warm, comfortable sweaters—much like the hoodie I'd burrowed my way into once I got home from church, though she couldn't have known that then. Instead of laughing, like anyone else might have in her position, her response was as perfectly sweet, dulcet, and charming as I could ever hope, magnified a thousand times over by the rapid, thunderous pounding of my heart.

**Rachel (2:56 PM): Awh! Quinn, that's so cute. :)**

My embarrassment was immediately forgotten, and I'd smiled so widely then that I had to bite my lip to stifle it.

Claiming that it was only fair, I insisted that she tell me something about herself in return. She agreed, feigning a coy reluctance that I tried my best to ignore, and, after a moment of contemplation, admitted that, when she was younger, she had always wanted to learn to play the violin. I asked if she had ever taken lessons, to which she replied that she had tried, but despite being skilled with her hands later on in life, her eight-year old self was heavy-handed and incompetent when it came to the delicate finger work—the phrasing of which, for some reason, coming from Rachel, made my face warm profusely, yet again—required of a violinist.

In a hasty attempt to push the rapidly straying thoughts from my mind, I asked why she hadn't attempted to learn how to play since then. I nearly died of spontaneous combustion when, offering me a virtual laugh, she promised that she'd found plenty of other ways to occupy her hands.

Unsurprisingly, I was bombarded again by the wayward thoughts I'd tried to ignore. Before I could ask for an example of her hobbies, however—in a desperate attempt to smother my indecent imagination into silence—she interrupted me. Drawing my attention back to the festival, she commented on a string quartet she happened to pass by that included a 'decidedly more talented child' than she was, and I threw myself headlong in _that_ direction, obstinately ignoring the lingering implications.

Once the conversation returned to safer and less suggestive things, my pale complexion gradually returned, and my lungs began to cooperate less laboriously. We talked for what seemed like forever, and simultaneously not long enough. I told more her about the derision I'd been subjected to at church, and though I had recounted it with as much ease as I would have if I'd been singing the alphabet, she offered hilarious exaggerations in return, satirizing the model behavior of my fellow Christians. As time went on, she went into greater detail about the performances she passed at the festival. She told me about a group of female violinists she had seen that had played the most heavenly music she'd ever heard; about a non-traditional one-man band who played an electric keyboard, a bass drum, and a two-stringed guitar; about a little boy who could play the flute like there was no tomorrow. She applauded them so readily to me that it wasn't difficult to imagine the compliments she gave them in person.

While everyone else in Glee might have expected her to be critical or disparaging, pointing out their flaws, while regarding them all in comparison to her own abilities, she didn't once mention herself. I wasn't surprised that she didn't; the Rachel I've been getting to know isn't at all what other people would expect of her.

Though, eventually, I realized—only in retrospect, and after I'd acted on it, of course—that I was disappointed. As she gushed about the performances she saw, I realized that I was indignant; _I_ felt cheated, because _her_ talents weren't being recognized in the midst of theirs—and, caught in an impetuous surge of bold confidence, I assured her, with my face burning like a quasar, even from forty-five minutes away, that her voice outmatched all of their talent combined.

Waiting for her response, my anxiety felt more like nuclear fission, but it was worth it when she chastised me for being 'too sweet.'

Amidst our conversation, she asked now and then what I was doing, and, more than once, I had to find clever ways to explain—without sounding as obsessed as it surely would have seemed—the fact that I was still in bed, listening to all of the songs that reminded me of her, wishing that I was anywhere but here without her.

Sometime just after six o'clock, she told me, with a sincere apology, that she had to let me go, because her phone was dying. Considering the fact that we'd been talking non-stop for nearly four hours, I wasn't surprised; but I couldn't help feeling somewhat disappointed when she told me that she hadn't remembered to bring the charger for the car with her, so she wouldn't be able to talk to me again until she got home—the exact time of which was a mystery. Despite being sad that I had to say goodbye, like this morning, my irrepressibly good mood remained. I was on cloud nine, soaring through an endless sky of saccharine cumuli and cirri, and the rush of talking to her lingered even though she was gone. I pacified myself with thoughts of her; I reread our messages, wondered what she was doing, imagined her excitement…

A while later, when my mother informed me that dinner was ready, despite the fact that I wasn't hungry, I reluctantly conceded to accompany her downstairs for a silent meal with my father. If she had to suffer through it with him, the least I could do was join her and partake in the meal that she had spent so much time preparing.

I ate with as much surreptitious rapidity as I could, begging to be excused only a few minutes after we sat down, desperate, first of all, to get away from my father, but, more fiercely, eager to return to the safe little hole I'd carved out of reality, where I could lay in bed for hours on end and think about Rachel to my heart's content.

Once I returned to my bedroom, I did just that, reminiscing about everything that we talked about, and when my phone vibrated on the mattress next to me sometime later, I didn't pay much attention. As far as I knew, Rachel was unavailable, and it didn't seem late enough for her to have made it home already, so I figured that it was either Santana or Brittany, suffering a moment of extreme boredom. Therefore, I wasn't in a particular rush to check the message—but when I finally lifted my phone to read it and noticed Rachel's name displayed brilliantly across the screen, butterflies erupted tumultuously in my stomach, their tiny wings beating furiously.

For a moment, I could only stare at my phone, surprised, first of all, then perplexed, confused, intrigued, and, above all, excited beyond comprehension.

I accepted the text, my heart backflipping in my chest. Similar to the message she sent me at church this morning, the first thing I saw when I opened it was a picture: a darkened sky, illuminated by a brilliant burst of color, luminous, and showering down like rain. In the background, several other fireworks were just beginning to fade, still radiant even as they were drawn back to the earth. It was a gorgeous atmosphere to behold, even indirectly, but it was her words that took my breath away.

**Rachel (8:47 PM): Aren't they beautiful? The picture doesn't do them any justice, but I wanted to share this with you. It feels so amazing here right now, Quinn, surrounded by the music and the lights. I've never been anywhere more magical. I wish you could feel it the way I do. Next time, come with me. :)**

Ever since then, though it feels like hours have passed, I've been laying in bed without a care in the world, staring at my ceiling. It's almost like I can see all of her words written across the faceless planes, swirling and curling and blending seamlessly from letter to letter like the lyrics that dance across her bedroom walls. At times, I allow it to drift away and I close my eyes, just to see her face, to envision her smile, trying to recall the melody of her laughter. I hum along to the familiar melodies drifting from my stereo's speakers, all the while compiling a mental list of the ones I'd love to hear her sing for me someday.

My body is stiff from my lack of mobility, but there isn't anything else that I would rather do. As strange as it may be to admit—and as much as my logical brain urges me to be wary of the implications and repercussions—anything else, no matter how engaging it used to me, seems now inherently extraneous, vapid, and pointless.

It's dangerous, this sudden addiction to her. She's always been on my mind; for the longest time, she's never been far from my thoughts—but now that I've seen her so clearly, now that she's letting me in and giving me a chance to know her, and to let her know who I am, it's like nothing else in the world means anything anymore.

I'm losing myself in her.

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, pitiful or not, I don't have much to keep me tethered to the world; giving myself to Rachel doesn't require me to sacrifice anything in return; yet, even if I did, I know that none of it would really matter. Rachel Berry is becoming the most important thing in my life, the only reason I continue to get up every morning and remind myself to breathe—and, while I'm happier than I can ever remember being, I can't be absolutely sure that it's all a good thing.

If this ends badly, if something goes wrong, if I ruin everything and she pushes me away… I don't know what I'll do.

The thought of being without her terrifies me.

I've only had two days with her, and these two days have shown me more lucidly than ever that I am truly, madly, deeply_ in love_ with Rachel Berry.

How could I _not_ love her? It doesn't seem possible. Rachel is the sweetest, kindest, most beautiful person I've ever met. There have been times in the past that she was bureaucratic or intrusive, and sometimes self-interested, even blatantly self-centered—I'm not blind to that—but there was always a reason, whatever the instance. That much was clear. She was determined; she knew that, one day, she would move on to bigger things, a better life, and she was doing what she thought needed to be done to ensure that she got there. Even if it seemed like she was only thinking of herself, it wasn't hard to see why. She'd been forced into a life of solitude even as a little girl, and, throughout high school, the only person she could go to for protection was herself. Thinking of herself had been something she'd had to learn the hard way.

People may have gotten hurt in the process, but she never hurt anybody on purpose—unlike me. Even though I did all that I could to ruin her life, she was always there, somehow, trying to help me, trying to be the better person. She offered me humanity, trying to pick up the pieces that I could never put back together myself.

When I was left alone with the horrible person I'd become after Finn found out that the baby wasn't his…

When I lost control of myself at Prom—when I sunk to a level I'd never thought I'd reach, and slapped her…

Through everything that I subjected her to, she was always there, offering comfort that I didn't deserve, ready to dry my tears if I'd only let her.

I was so weak, so tired of trying to fight her, that I couldn't help it anymore, and, in the end, I finally did…

Rachel is the epitome of everything that I'm not. She is the best person I know, with a bigger heart than anybody can imagine—I can't help but feel like just knowing her is making me better. Somehow, she's changing me. She's crushing the head-Cheerio Quinn of my past into nonexistence, and bringing out the other Quinn, the real one, that has always adored her instead. While everything I've done to her is enough to shatter the fragile dream of building a friendship with her, the fact that I know—that I can _feel—_that Rachel is helping me become a better person keeps me together, and it makes me feel like things might turn out alright after all.

It's cyclical, I realize after a moment. The more attached to her I get, the better of a person I become—and it brings a smile to my face. _That's fine with me_.

Yet, even though I'm secure in the knowledge that, for now, everything is perfect, I have to bodily refrain from checking the clock, flattening myself on my bed, for what must be the fifth time in the past hour. I would be content to lie here and think of her all night, if only my thoughts were truly convincing enough to satisfy the desire to talk to her. My ears themselves are restless, aching to hear her voice—_her_ voice, not the inadequate resonances I can conjure from my memories.

I know, however, the chance of that happening is slim. I've been lucky enough to talk to her at all today, even through a text message.

A phone call—during which my voice would surely abandon me anyway—would be nothing short of miraculous.

A brief silence falls across my room, and I exhale a sigh to fill it. The moment lingers, but I smile beneath my forearms, crossed lazily over my face, as the first strains of what could be the anthem of my life eases in and ushers the stillness away. _I try, but I can't seem to get myself to think of anything but you… _

Something settles deeply within me, the closest thing to true longing that I've ever felt in my life. This song makes me miss her even more.

I groan to myself, pulling the pillow from behind my head and crushing it to my chest, for lack of anything else to hold. _This is so unfair! _

Enamored by the melody that fills the room and surrounds me, I want nothing more than to _do_ something; I want to run along the rooftops and sing for everything that I'm worth; I want to look Rachel in the eyes and pour every single ounce of myself into the words, to show her just how much I mean them—and even though she's not here, even though my parents are downstairs and the walls in this ridiculously overpriced house are as thin as a sheets of paper, I can't keep myself from giving in to the music and singing along out loud, murmuring the lilting lyrics to myself, wishing she could hear them.

Even after the song has ended, it lingers in my mind. It resounds sweetly, persisting, even as I finally push myself out of bed with a huff, deciding that it's late enough to change into something for bed. The melody follows me tirelessly, and I hum to myself all the way to the bathroom, throughout the process of getting changed, and even while I brush my teeth—which probably looks and sounds ridiculous, but I can't help it. Returning to my bedroom and shutting the door, I still can't get it out of my head—but over my own humming, I can just hear a different kind of hum, a tone that is less melodic, emphatically electronic.

I turn instinctively toward my bedside table, where I'd left my cell phone to charge—since the combination of texting Rachel nonstop for four hours and then replaying our conversation for another had effectively drained my cell phone's battery. As my eyes focus on the small piece of machinery, I realize that the screen is lit brightly, turning in place, a fraction of an inch, as it shifts its position with each subsequent vibration.

Anticipation alters my course; I don't even have to give it a second thought.

Before I can make it to my previously intended destination—across the room to my laundry basket, to discard the clothes that I barely wore—I'm darting toward my bed, practically diving for my cell phone, which I disconnect hastily from the charger. I check the screen eagerly. **New Text Message**, it informs me.

A buoyant smile overtakes my lips. _It has to be her_, I tell myself._ She should be home by now._

I accept the message, anticipation thrumming within me like the resonant frequencies of a thousand guitar strings.

**Rachel (10:42 PM): Quinnnnnnnn...**

For the briefest instant, with my eyes locked resolutely on the screen, I'm frozen.

Suddenly, it feels like I've been doused with boiling water. My entire body grows warm.

_Oh, wow. _I swallow thickly. _That should **not** be so exciting__._

I don't know what I was expecting when I opened it, but it definitely wasn't that.

Physically shaking my head, I inhale until I've reached the maximum capacity of my lungs, and hold my breath, trying desperately to ignore the implications of my name in a long, drawn out groan coming from none other than Rachel Berry—but my mind betrays me. _God_, _would that be an incredible sound_…_ _

I exhale sharply, releasing the oxygens that my lungs had taken hostage, and command my brain into silence. _That's not what it meant, and you know it._

_She's got to be tired, _I rationalize hastily. _It was a long day, and she's exhausted, and— _My subconscious generates the sound of my name falling from her lips. _Stop it!_

Clenching my teeth—to save my lip from the damage it would surely have endured if I'd bitten that instead—I realize that a whole minute has passed since the message was sent in the first place. _I swear to God, Fabray, if you keep this up__…__ _I shake my head. _Answer her already!_

With another useless breath, I swallow against my nerves and clear my head the best that I can, focusing all of my attention on responding properly.

**(10:43 PM): Lol. Hey, you. Did you make it home?**

Though it's a more effulgent response than I'd ever be able to give physically in my current predicament, the latent excitement and happiness behind it are sincere. Even though my mind strays to places that it shouldn't more often than I'd like it to, I'm still immensely relieved and incomprehensibly ecstatic to talk to her again—and while the question itself might have been redundant, since she told me that she wouldn't be able to text me until she got home, she already broke that rule by sending me the picture of the fireworks, so I decided to check anyway, just to be sure. I do my best to calm myself, settling back in bed, sinking into my pillows.

Pressing my eyes shut, I shake my head again as my thoughts begin to rewind. _Don't even think about it._

My phone buzzes insistently in my palm, and I open my eyes to search the screen.

**Rachel (10:43 PM): Yes, finally. I'm so tired!**

Despite my warring thoughts, I smile to myself; I can only imagine how adorable Rachel looks when she's sleepy.

**(10:44 PM): I'm sure you are. You had a long day.**

We've both been up for over twelve hours now. I've already hit the fifteen-hour mark—and, knowing Rachel, she's probably at sixteen or seventeen already—but I'm not the slightest bit drowsy. My mind is crystalline and translucent—and admittedly straying in directions it shouldn't. Yet, even though my thoughts aren't exactly innocent, as time drifts on, they're easier to disregard. I've finally gotten what I've wanted ever since we had to say goodbye earlier. I'm so indiscriminately happy just to be talking to her again that my lascivious imaginings grow dimmer by the second and, soon, they're forgotten without any difficulty at all.

Waiting for the familiar vibration to tickle my palm, I realize that it's taking her longer to respond than usual. She must be even more exhausted than she's letting on, a notion I consider proven when she replies in a less than cohesive manner compared to the otherwise consistent flow of our conversations.

**Rachel (10:46 PM): I just want to curl up in bed. **

I shake my head, a grin tugging at my lips. _Could you be any more adorable, Rachel? _I wonder. Still, the thought comes unbidden to my mind that I wish I could lay with her instead, and, for a moment, I lose myself in a perfect dream, imagining what it would be like to hold her, before I make up my mind to reply.

**(10:46 PM): Isn't that where you're headed?**

Though I know by now that I probably won't be able to talk to her much longer, since she's practically half-unconscious already, I can't find it in myself to be disappointed that the conversation has only lasted this long. I can't willfully deny her sleep any longer when she's so obviously exhausted. My phone vibrates, as if to agree.

**Rachel (10:49 PM): Mmhmm. I just wanted to say goodnight to you first. **

All at once, my heart and the blood within it seem to coalesce, melding into one, all of it warm and liquid, pounding an alternating beat of baritone and bass that courses through my body's circulatory system, heating and enlivening each of my limbs. I imagine that love would feel this way, coursing through my veins.

_God. The simplest things she says— _I absolutely adore this girl.

Suddenly, without the comfort of my hoodie, protected only by the insubstantial fabric of my oversized T-shirt and pajama pants, I'm not warm enough on the outside to match the inside. The fundamental system of homeostasis has abandoned me; my internal regulator has gone haywire, unable to reach a comfortable equilibrium. I sink further into my bed, drawing the velveteen microplush blanket laid neatly at the foot of my bed over myself. I play with the finely-stitched hem with my free hand, using the other to prop my phone against my chest, searching the screen to read it again.

Like so many times before, Rachel has left me breathless, speechless. I don't know what exactly to say in response; everything that comes to mind sounds unnecessary and obtuse. Yet, even half-asleep and nearly incoherent, she seems to know, and she texts me again before I can respond.

**Rachel (10:50 PM): Are we still on for tomorrow?**

Shocked, I pause. _Are you kidding me, Rachel? I've only been thinking about it all day._

Though I don't know if she's awake enough to comprehend the joke, I attempt it anyway.

**(10:52 PM): Come Hell or high water. :D**

While it's presented humorously, I mean it literally. No matter the conditions, I'll be at Windsor Park tomorrow. _A firing squad couldn't keep me away._

Honestly, though I'm embarrassed to admit it even to myself, I've been driving myself crazy about the whole thing. I've already changed my mind about what I'm going to wear nearly ten times, and I still haven't been able to come to a conclusion. I don't want to overdress, yet, at the same time, I don't want to be underdressed—and I have rationalized to myself several times that it's not a date, and, therefore, it doesn't make any sense at all to freak out about it, but I can't help myself. The tension is obstinate, unrelenting. This is the first time we've actually _planned_ to meet somewhere. Every other time that I have seen her outside of school, it's been an accident, a chance encounter; and the fact that she actually _planned_ to see me—the thought that she _wants_ to see me—simultaneously heightens and quells my anxiety.

**Rachel (10:54 PM): Lol. If it floods, I'm blaming you.**

It amazes me how, even half-asleep, she can still be funny, and I laugh to myself.

**(10:54 PM): Haha. Alright. Deal.**

Waiting for her response, I shake my head. _You are amazing, Rachel Berry._

**Rachel (10:55 PM): ****I'm really looking forward to it.**

It's horrifyingly cliche, but my heart somersaults wildly in my chest, pounding its emphatic agreement.

But I couldn't even begin to explain just how much I'm looking forward to it, so I settle for the easy route instead.

**(10:55 PM): Me too. :)**

_You have **no** idea, Rachel._

**Rachel (10:56 PM): Quinn?**

My heart gives a solid thump in response.

**(10:56 PM): Yeah?**

I don't really have to ask; I know that she's about to say goodbye. I can practically feel her exhaustion through my phone, despite the fact that I'm unable to empathize with her directly, still wired and wide awake. I draw my knees up to comfort myself, to soften the impact of having to let her go.

When my phone vibrates again, I'm ecstatic to find that the word 'goodnight' is nowhere to be seen—and she seems more awake now than ever.

**Rachel (10:58 PM): Thank you. Everything about the festival today was ten times better, knowing that I could share it with you.**

In this moment, I could fall apart happily. I'm realizing by degrees that she's incredibly sweet when she's tired, even more so than usual, endearing in a way that fills me with so many indistinct and indecipherable feelings that they all seem to blend into one, coming together with the friction of atoms, generating heat, until all that I feel is an indiscriminate, wholly encompassing warmth. I'm not sure what the safest response would be, but that doesn't matter. I match her unguarded sincerity.

**(10:59 PM): Trust me, Rachel. I should be thanking you. Talking to you made my day.**

It doesn't really matter anymore if I'm being obvious.

There's so much more I want to say to her, so much that I wish I could make her understand, so much that I don't have the courage to tell her—but it'll have to wait for some other time. Maybe, someday, I'll be able to tell her everything; maybe, one day, I'll be completely honest with her.

Or, maybe, someday, she'll figure it out on her own. I wouldn't be surprised if she did.

**Rachel (11:02 PM): Symbiosis. **

_Mutually beneficial? _I smile to myself, breathing deeply. _How did I ever get so lucky?_

Before I can respond, my phone vibrates again, twice, in rapid succession.

**Rachel (11:02 PM): Now, I'm about to lose consciousness, so I have to let you go. :(**

**Rachel (11:03 PM): I'll see you tomorrow. Come Hell or high water! Lol. Goodnight, Quinn.**

I pause before I settle on an answer, typing, erasing; typing, erasing; typing, erasing.

Running through a list of things that I could say, jokes that I could make, last minute punchlines, I decide against all of them. They all seem out of the way at this point, excuses to make the moment linger. With my bottom lip drawn between my teeth, I shake my head. _Let her sleep, Fabray. She's tired. Just say goodnight._

I put my fingers to work against the keys, urging myself to keep it simple—and I convince myself that the note it ends on is justified, to soften the abrupt simplicity.

_If she notices at this point, it doesn't even matter._

**(11:04 PM): Sweet dreams, Rachel. ~3**

I study the pixelated screen for a moment longer before I place my phone back on my nightstand, sinking back into my pillows and breathing deeply. Today has been one of the best days that I've had in the last seventeen years. As far as I'm concerned, today is closely tied with yesterday—even despite the fact that I had to suffer through three hours of ostracism before I was able to talk to Rachel again. For what I got today, it was worth it. Being 'woken up' by her this morning was a miracle in itself—and, still, an incomprehensible amount of luck on my part somehow convinced her to devote most of her day to talking to me, even though she should have been taking in all that she could from the festival; and she made a point to stay awake long enough to say goodnight to me, though she was probably falling asleep even as she said it.

On top of all that, I can go to sleep tonight _knowing_ that I'll get to see her again tomorrow. I grin. _Come Hell or high water._

I'm so happy, that nothing else seems to matter. This could all come crashing down if I make a mistake, but right now, optimism keeps the anxiety at bay.

Right now, Rachel trusts me. Right now, it feels like she cares. Right now, she's giving me the chance to get to know her the way I should have from the beginning, and I'll be damned if I don't take it—because, right now, I feel like I'm ready to start being the person she has always deserved.

* * *

><p>Note: There's no doubt in my mind now that Quinn's a little unstable. Sorry about that.<p>

Note: I apologize if some parts seem rushed or awkward; I was more worried about getting this posted before I had to dive back into the thick of things.

The next chapter, once I get there—which, eventually, I will, I promise—will pick up at the park. They're going to make it, I swear. Even if I have to start chugging coffee at midnight and practicing nocturnal habits just to get it done. It _will_ happen.

By the way, as a little incentive… one of the girls receives quite a surprise. :)


	9. So High Above Me

Okay, first things first. I'll apologize profusely ahead of time, but before I get into this next chapter, I have a couple of things to say. If anybody, at any time, feels the need to question me, I implore you to do so. If you find something out of place, ask me about it; but, please, I beg of you, do not accuse me of something before I've had a chance to explain myself. I sincerely implore you not to insult my intelligence. I take it very personally. But if you ask, I will be glad to answer you.

So, please, please, please if you have a question regarding my story, _please_, ask me about it.

*sigh* Now, with that out of the way, I'm quite literally _ecstatic_ to be moving on. This one is crazy long! I hope you're all as excited as I am for this next scene.]

Without further ado: Chapter Nine.

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><p><strong>Monday, July 11th, 2011<strong>

* * *

><p>The eleven o'clock sunlight is dim today, soft. The clouds roll lazily across the sky. Sitting on an abandoned bench near the rusting swing set of Windsor Park, I count the billowing wisps of condensed moisture as they pass, deciphering their nebulous silhouettes, envisaging their fabled stories. It helps distract me from the slow trickle of time, tempering my anticipation, calming me and keeping me still.<p>

I'm early. I've been at the park for ten minutes already, and I'm still twenty minutes ahead of Rachel. It feels like I've been early all morning. I was so anxious to see her again that I was up with the sun, out of bed and ready to start my day at the crack of dawn, even though I'm a habitually late sleeper.

Even standing in front of my closet trying to find something to wear didn't set me back—though I was staring interminably at all of my clothes for what felt like forever. I couldn't make up my mind. Despite not knowing explicitly what the weather was going to be like, I figured, since it's the middle of summer, it was safe to assume that it wouldn't be cool enough outside for a pair of jeans. While I took the time to appraise my innumerable dresses, I realized upon seeing them that every single one of them was too reminiscent of my past and the person I used to be; I wasn't comfortable with the idea of wearing them. I decided then that I wanted to show Rachel the person she's helping me become—the person she makes it so easy for me to be—not the porcelain doll I thought I had to be before, and that keeping up appearances doesn't matter anymore. I finally settled on a worn pair of capris, the cuffs below my knees rolled once, frayed and threadbare, and a plain, fitted T-shirt; gray, my favorite color.

After I'd showered and gotten dressed, I couldn't tell if I was hungry or if I was just nervous, but the mercurial tumult in my stomach urged me to venture downstairs to find breakfast. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating a stack of paperwork, and she regarded me with copious—and quite obvious—amounts of shock when I entered the room, commenting incredulously that I was up early for the second day in a row. The only explanation I could provide was the fact that I didn't sleep well last night—which was an honest answer, even if it was only half of it. I didn't sleep well—or _at all_, actually—because it took me forever to calm down after Rachel had said goodnight to me. I was so eager to see her this morning that I couldn't relax enough to slip into unconsciousness.

I saw the numbers on my bedside clock hit three AM before I finally drifted off, and I was up only four hours later.

It felt like days had passed before it was finally time for me to leave the house this morning—but I guess that's what I get for getting out of bed at seven o'clock again. I did everything I could think of while I was waiting. I logged onto my computer for the first time in three days; I did laundry, and subsequently dried, folded, and put it all away; I listened to the songs that had been swirling through my mind all night; I researched some of the lyrics that I could remember from Rachel's wall, indulging in an impromptu shopping spree on iTunes, desperate to hear what Rachel deemed beautiful. I spent another hour in deep thought, rereading the text messages that were still saved from the night before last, only to realize that keeping them all is quickly depleting the availably memory on my phone. Even so, I still couldn't bring myself to delete any of them. I'm determined to keep them for as long as I can, until I no longer have a choice.

When I made it to the park, there wasn't a single person in sight, although it wasn't really a surprise. There aren't many children in this neighborhood; they all grew up in the same generation as Rachel and I, and most of them go to McKinley, so the park itself is usually vacant—which makes me wonder again if, for some reason, Rachel planned it this way, though I can't begin to rationalize why. All I know is that we'll be alone, and while the possessively jealous part of me is satisfied that I'll have her all to myself, even for a little while, the thought works up all of my anxiety and anticipation—so I try to calm myself and soothe my impatience by watching the clouds that sail through the atmosphere, contemplating how I got to this place in my life, reminiscing. I wonder frequently how I got so lucky.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here now. I've kept myself from checking my phone for the time. I've convinced myself that it's mostly to preserve my patience, but the truth of it is that I haven't been able to look at it all morning without a phantom tide of disappointment with the strength of a tsunami crashing through my chest.

Rachel hasn't texted me since we said goodnight last night.

Though I know that I shouldn't be upset about it, since she told me ahead of time that she had class to attend this morning, the illogical, emotional part of my brain is still melancholy and low, unsettled by her absence. It felt wrong, almost, to get out of bed without wishing her a good morning first…

A cloud that reminds me vaguely of a shooting star—only a fleeting wisp of moisture—drifts across the canvas of the sky. I watch it for a long moment, before something at the horizon draws my attention downward. Crossing the field, a familiar figure is moving toward me; and, all at once, it feels like the sun has finally begun to shine.

My demeanor immediately improves. _Rachel._

She walks so smoothly, with such ease, that it's like her feet don't even touch the ground. Even though I can see her shoulders oscillating against the distant blue of the horizon, rising and falling with weightless buoyancy as she bounces lightly on the balls of her feet, she moves with such perfect grace that an awestricken paralysis floods from the top of my head down to my toes. Even from a distance, she is a sight to behold. Her hair is light and lively, the chocolate tresses dancing in the playful breeze, caressing and playing about the bronze curvature of her shoulders. She's wearing another one of her favored summertime camis, but it's white today, striped with a pale, cornflower blue; a thick ribbon, knotted with a bow and hued the color of powdered slate, encircles the most slender curve of her abdomen, hugging her just beneath the slight swell of her ribcage, and the delicate material flows below it, flaring outward at the waist; a lattice of flowery patterns adorns the modestly revealing neckline that comes to a low V beneath her collarbone. Her skirt today is much like the one she'd been wearing when we met at the café and spent the day together at the mall, but now with several additional tiers of diaphanous ruffles.

Already, my heart is calling out to her. _You are so gorgeous…_

Even if she never reaches me, I feel like I'd be content just to stand here and watch her walk toward me—literally, _stand_, because, although I was sitting just a moment ago, apparently, I've risen from my seat on the bench. I'm upright, on my feet. When I find that they're suddenly moving beneath me, without my conscious demand, I begin to rethink the scope of my patience. While the simple act of watching her is breathtaking, I realize that can't willingly keep myself away from her.

I'm halfway across the park before my brain catches up with my body, making my way across the trampled grass and loosely shifting playground sand to meet her. Taken captive, bolstered by the certainty of a lovestruck autopilot, I'm drawn to her, magnetized, unable to resist. I can feel the lazy curve of a smile tugging at my lips.

Sensation and function fail me the nearer I get to her. My heart should be bursting out of my chest, pulsing with excitement, but it pounds languidly inside me, too enamored even to beat, too awestruck to match the intensity of my anticipation. I don't blame it. I can't feel the ground beneath me or the warmth of the sun on my back; I can only see Rachel.

Her eyes are bright and shining as she approaches, her smile wide, lighting her face. "Hey," she says, her voice lilted and sweet.

The first words that come to mind have less to do with greeting her and more to do with the fact that she's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Yet, somehow, I'm able to compose myself, and even though I'm grinning the same dopey grin without the ability to curb it, I return her salutation. "Hey."

She fakes a pout as she steps closer—close enough that I can just catch the faint scent of her perfume on the breeze. "You beat me."

While I try to draw my eyes from the mesmerizing curve of her lips, noting the dimple that peeks out when her artificial frown wavers and fails, the corners of her mouth curling up into an irrepressible grin, I search my muddled brain for something to say in response. I grasp for anything that won't sound moronic, anything simultaneously simple enough for my leaden tongue to articulate—but I'm at a loss. I can't tell her that I've been waiting here for half an hour, counting the minutes until I could finally see her; that I haven't been able to think about anything else but _her_ all morning—since last night—since _yesterday_ morning—since the night she invited me to dinner—since we went to the mall—since we shared lunch in the café—since the moment I met her…

Instead, I swallow my tongue and the truth, and I draw a card from my infinite deck of ambiguity.

"I had some time on my hands," I reply. It's not a lie—I _never_ want to lie to her again—but I hope she doesn't catch on to the way my voice wavers when I try to evade telling her the full extent of the truth. I fumble for something less hazardous to my cardio-vascular health, trying to ease the pressure. "I was watching the clouds."

My face flushes hotly, and my heart remembers how to beat again, pulsing frantically. _Way to make yourself seem cool, Fabray._

"I see," Rachel says with a wide grin and an encouraging nod, falling into step with me as we begin to walk. "Anything good up there?"

_Seriously? _I study the warm depths of her eyes, able to discern her sincerity without any difficulty, though I can't immediately overcome my hesitation._ You really want me to tell you about the things I saw in the clouds? _Her uninhibited, openhearted patience serves as my only answer.

It takes a minute to recall the shapes I'd seen, honestly, since I'd been so deep in thought for most of it. "A couple of rabbits…" I finally admit after a moment, searching the sky again as if the same fleeting figures are still there, waiting for me to name them, "and, uh—and an octopus."

_God. Could I sound any more like a three-year old right now?_

Rachel plays along. She doesn't hesitate to match my level of immaturity. "Wow. I've never seen an octopus up there before," she says, stressing her intonation on the eight-legged creature. Yet, beneath her deliberate silliness, I can see that she's being sincere. "I'm sad that I missed it."

She walks softly beside me, her arms drawn behind her back, fingers laced together, as they have been ever since she first ventured into the park, and she beams at me as we begin to circle the vast field, moving aimlessly. I watch her as she moves, my eyes drawn to her in a far less subtle manner than I'd like, studying the sunlight as it caresses her shoulders—the shoulders that I'm quickly falling in love with; the shoulders that I long to simultaneously touch, kiss, taste, and lay my head on whenever I see them. I allow my gaze to wander, tracing the gentle planes of her face, noting the constant flex of her smile as it responds to her thoughts.

I'm so light that I could be breathing helium. I'm a walking balloon. It feels so good just to be here with her, just to see her again. If it wasn't for the fact that I've been just short of _dying_ to hear her voice ever since she sang for me the other night, I'd be content just to walk with her for hours—but I can't help it. I need to hear her.

Turning to catch her eyes, my heart pounding relentlessly as I melt into the familiar warmth within them, I shift my hands into the pockets of my jeans in an attempt to quell the tremors of my nervous excitement. "How was your dance class?" I ask eventually, once I find the right words.

Rachel drops her gaze, the corners of her lips rising into an indecipherable smile. "It was somewhat challenging, actually," she admits, and euphoric relief floods through me, simply to hear her speak. When she lifts her eyes again, searching for mine, they're alight with a familiar luster. "I couldn't seem to pay attention today."

I try to ignore the million and one connotations, implications, possibilities, and _Whatifs_ that my mind produces in response, shying away from the innumerable chances that linger within the chocolate depths of her eyes, the enigmas I can never comprehend. _Relax, Fabray_, I command myself. _She didn't say anything about **you**._

Instead, I focus on what should be the most probable cause of her distraction. "Are you still hung up on the festival?" I don't sound nearly as composed as I'd like to.

She shakes her head, the voluminous locks that I love so much dancing against the bronze of her shoulders. "No, I don't think so," she says slowly, and she pauses for a moment, just long enough that I can't help but ponder her words. "I was just anxious to be done today." Her eyes dip away from mine, to the grass beneath us, just for a moment, before fixing me with the first glimmer of the profound intensity I know so well. "I wanted to see you."

Her voice is so soft, so sincere that my heart throbs in my chest, a pulse that echoes throughout my limbs and tingles in my fingertips. I wish I could mentally record her words and save them in a deep, safe part of my brain, where I could loop the playback and listen to it over and over.

_'I wanted to see you.' _I can only exhale dumbly in response, humming an unintelligible tone that wavers into nervous laughter. My dopey grin stretches from ear to ear.

She smiles to herself, bouncing a bit higher with her next step, and she shakes her head, seemingly in response to something I'm not privy to. "But you're right," she continues. "I can't get over the festival completely. It was so amazing, Quinn." The way her face lights up, I know it's true. "Even when we were in New York, I'd never felt so at home, so content." I search her eyes, mesmerized by the soft glow of wonderment that befalls them. "It was magical."

Though her smile is wide and unwavering, it seems like, for now, she's willing to let the topic drop, and I realize that I don't want her to stop talking.

"Was there any particular theme?" I ask her, in what is decidedly a very lame attempt to get her to continue, and I have to resist rolling my eyes at myself. _Is there any particular way you could sound more like an idiot? Of course there was a theme, Fabray—that thing called __**music**__!_

Even though it feels like I'm doing a monumental job of making a fool of myself, Rachel appears unbothered, smiling even as she shakes her head. "Not that I could tell."

I thank my lucky stars—the few of them that I do have—for the fact that, despite my distinct lack of eloquence, she understands that I was trying to allude to a deeper subject matter within the overall theme. The congenial warmth she so easily exudes effortlessly soothes my wounded super-ego.

"There were musicians from every genre you could imagine," she says, the awe in her voice evident. It calms my nerves, easing the tension of my lingering anxiety, and instead of berating myself, I revel in the fact that I'm able to hear her so excited about something. "Classical pianists and indie bands were posted side by side, right next to Chinese and Japanese culture troupes." She pauses, a shy grin on her lips, meeting my eyes only for a fleeting moment. "The pots-and-pans band I sent you a picture of traveled the whole festival, joining in with cellists and guitarists. There was a vocal ensemble—which was so amazing that my dads literally had to drag me away so we could make it to the fireworks in time—and a mariachi band too." When she laughs, my heart thrums against my ribs. "At one point, we even passed a beatnik."

Watching her, I wonder briefly if the flush that lingers in her cheeks is reminiscent of her comment about the picture she sent me, because my face is still warm too.

"Have you decided which one was your favorite?" I ask, after I've had a moment to collect myself. I asked which performance she liked best yesterday, but she'd told me that she couldn't decide just then, and that, even if she could have, I'd have to wait to know until the festival was over in case she changed her mind.

She pouts at me, her face drawn in a visage of exaggerated pain, a visualization of her inner struggle. "That's such a tough question to answer," she laments.

I avert my eyes as she bites her bottom lip, unable to watch her directly, and I note that she's searching our surroundings for the answer, as if it's written somewhere in the sky, only through my peripheral vision. Luckily, her indecision is adorable and endearing enough that I can force myself to ignore the movement of her lips, retaining at least some semblance of sanity. I realize after a moment that I'm smiling to myself; she's even more lovable when she's struggling with something so slight.

I try to make it easier on her. "If I had to guess," I begin slowly, praying that I'm at least _close_, "I'd say that it has to be between the violinists and the vocal ensemble."

For a moment, Rachel appears taken aback. She regards me with a soft, indecipherable smile, and I can just see the faintest hint of pink rise in her cheeks before she drops her eyes, turning her face downward. Her hair cascades over her shoulder, veiling her from view, but as she lifts a hand to smooth the chocolate locks back where they belong behind her ear, I notice that the curve of her lips has deepened, and I find myself wondering how it's possible that something so simple can be so beautiful.

In the midst of its rhythm, my heart stumbles over a beat. I'm beginning to wonder if I really do have to worry about cardiac arrest…

Though her gaze is still glued to the ground, Rachel nods. "You would be right," she finally says. Her voice is low, but her eyes, when they return to mine, are illuminated with a new brightness. "Those are my top contenders, but it's hard to narrow it even to the two of them. All of the performances were amazing in their own way."

When she opens her mouth again to speak, I'm concentrating too intently on the curve of her lips, but I notice that she pauses briefly, as if reconsidering her decision to continue. Though she eventually makes up her mind to keep going, her pace is measured.

"The very center of the festival was a lake," she says, "and when my dads and I passed it, there was a woman on the bank, singing. She was performing an arioso in Italian, and it was absolutely breathtaking."

Her cheeks redden further, the delicate hue just beginning to spread downward along her neck, and I hold my breath in anticipation, studying her intently; she's either embarrassed about whatever she's going to say, or nervous—maybe both.

"I honestly thought for a minute that I had forgotten how to walk."

Shaking her head at herself, she laughs, and if my throat hadn't just inexplicably collapsed upon itself, I would laugh with her.

For some reason, the thought of Rachel flustered so intensely by a woman—even if it's not me—is exceptionally exhilarating.

_Maybe I have a chance after all._

Though I try to temper my voice, it is high and strained when I speak. "That good, huh?"

"She was magnificent," she agrees, nodding.

_Magnificent? Dear God, Rachel, what— _I sever that vein of thought before I can finish thinking it.

Thankfully, Rachel distracts me. "So, with that said, it's very hard for me to choose my favorite, but I think…" She trails off for a moment, biting her lip. Despite the fact that I'm still trying to calm my spasmodic heart, I can't help but find her absolutely adorable. Abruptly, she huffs, and I can imagine her internally demanding herself to make a decision. "I'm fairly certain that the violinists were my favorite," she says finally. "I did love the vocal ensemble, but it's… it's extraordinary when the music itself can overtake you." She turns to me, searching my eyes, as if to be sure that I understand what she's trying to tell me, her ardent intensity warming me from the inside out. "When it doesn't even need lyrics to move you—it's just so powerful."

I tumble into the welcoming abyss of her eyes. Relating to her is effortless. Sometimes, even hearing Rachel hum to herself is breathtaking.

"I know what you mean," I assure her, breathless with just the thought, when I finally remember how to speak.

She smiles, and my chest swells with a multitude of emotions as we both drop our eyes. _How is it possible that the simplest moments with you are so perfect?_

We continue walking, content for the moment to be silent. When I regain my bearings, determining my location by studying the skeletal silhouettes of the swing set and the jungle gym set against the blue of the horizon, I realize that we've already passed the spot where I met her. We've circled the park at least once—though, honestly, I wouldn't know the difference if this was our third or fifth time around—but I don't mind. Not even the silence bothers me, or the fact that, as we walk, I watch her, and I know without a doubt that she can feel my eyes on her; right now, with her by my side, I am strangely okay with being obvious.

When she turns to me and catches my eyes, I don't bother trying to look away.

"Can I tell you something?" she asks, swinging gently in my direction.

If it wasn't so adorable hearing her ask, I'd tell her that she doesn't have to. Instead, I remain silent, nodding, urging her to continue.

"Honestly, most of the time we were there, I felt kind of silly," she says, and she giggles, dancing lightly around the patches of flowers beneath her feet. "Walking around with my dads made me feel like I was a little girl again—but it probably didn't help that I was jumping and squealing the whole time too."

I laugh with her as I envision the scene; I wish I had been there to witness her excitement. Somehow, I know that her behavior in New York, as jubilant and exuberant as it had been, wouldn't even compare. I can only imagine how utterly adorable she must have been, skipping her way between pavilions, complimenting the musicians she passed, encouraging the younger performers to follow their dreams, no matter the obstacles they faced.

I smile to myself, watching the resilient grass rustle beneath my Converse, when I realize that nobody else knows just how sweet and selfless she can be. Though I find myself drifting further and further away into the deluge of thoughts that accompanies the chaos that is Glee Club, Rachel's voice brings me back.

"I haven't even gotten to tell you the best part yet."

I lift my eyes to her face, my eyebrow inching upward—and despite the fact that it was once a habitual, conceited response, an expression I despised, the architecture of a mask that I couldn't rip away no matter how violently I fought, somehow, now, it feels completely different—and I can't help but smile. Pushing the thought away, I'm brought back to the conversation, and I pick up, beaming helplessly, where she left off. "I thought we already established that it was the violinists," I remind her.

Laughter that I can only liken to a stream of bubbles escapes her lips, and she leans closer to touch her bare shoulder to mine, as if to chide me. "They were my favorite performers, yes," she elucidates, the playful tone of her voice a delicate symphony, "but the best part of the day was actually something we got to partake in."

I laugh with her, but I miss the warmth of her skin. "Okay," I relent. "Tell me about it."

She grins to herself as she begins. "Around noon, most of the performers were taking a break to eat lunch, but a couple of musicians from separate groups got together around the fire pit near the lake instead, and they were all playing old billboard chart-toppers."

I don't quite follow her at first, wondering what exactly made the performance so special, but the light in her eyes assures me that I'll know soon enough.

"There were dozens of them," she says, and her voice begins to rise with her excitement. "Cellists, flutists, pianists—on electric keyboards, for the most part—guitarists and drummers; and even some of the musicians from the cultural groups joined in." She turns to me for just a moment before reversing her movement, switching feet gracefully. Beaming as she walks backward in front of me—while I watch on, completely enamored, staring after her blatantly—she continues to explain. "The best part was, if you knew the song, it didn't matter if you were a performer or not. Anybody could sit with them and sing along. My dads and I spent an entire hour there."

I watch the sure rhythm of her feet against the ground—surreptitiously, I hope—wondering at the ease with which she moves. I know for certain that I would've fallen flat on my back by now, if I were her—but, maybe, if I were her, I wouldn't forget that I had legs every time she smiled…

"What songs did you sing?" I ask, honestly curious, though I use it as a means of distracting myself. _It's a logical question. 'Billboard charts' isn't a very narrow category._

"Most of it was older," she replies easily. "A lot of the songs they played were correlated to their ages, so it involved a lot of nineties-based bands, like Vertical Horizon and Better Than Ezra; Lifehouse." Just hearing her mention the bands, knowing that she can recognize them by their songs and list them so effortlessly, has my heart doing back flips. I follow her movement with my eyes as she twirls lightly, reclaiming her place by my side. "My favorites were "Jumper" by Third Eye Blind, and "Iris" by The Goo Goo Dolls, though their rendition of "Drops of Jupiter" was absolutely beautiful."

I stare at her in awe. _Could you be any more amazing, Rachel?_

She laughs briefly, and I wonder if she somehow heard me. "Dad suggested Pantera at one point," she says, and we both laugh, "which was hilarious. We did some older things too—things like Joan Jett and Poison. The only somewhat modern songs we sang were by Nickelback and Maroon Five."

I don't care that I'm about to change the subject. She's just finished listing bands and songs from the very playlist of my soul.

"How do you know so much about this kind of music?" I ask her, barely able to verbalize my wonderment.

Somehow able to discern that I am completely enamored with her, she turns to meet my eyes, but whatever she sees causes her to shrug shyly. "My dads," she admits. "When I was growing up, they always allowed me to decide what I wanted to listen to for myself, so that meant a lot of musicals and Broadway recordings she pauses for a moment to laugh—but whenever I wasn't listening to my music, I was listening to theirs."

She searches the sky, tracing the horizon with her eyes, just as I find myself tracing the planes of her face with mine.

"At first, I thought that I just wanted to be like them, you know?" When she turns to me, seeking confirmation, I nod—I can understand where she's coming from, even if I never really felt that way towards either of my parents—and she smiles before she continues. "I just wanted to have something to share with them. It wasn't until I started getting older that I realized how much I actually enjoyed it for myself." She smirks, joking, "It was surprisingly cathartic for all of my ill-placed teenage angst."

I can only shake my head, immersed so deeply in awe that I can't even think of anything to say. She moves beside me, shuffling her feet beneath her while she walks, the toes of her shoes toying with the grass. After a moment, she raises her head, grinning at me with that enigmatic diffusion I can never decipher.

"I bet you never thought that I would listen to anything other than Broadway and jazz."

Her teasing smile is disarming, threatening to distract me entirely. "I…" My first attempt fails, but I try again, shaking my head. "I knew there had to be something else."

"Then don't look so surprised," she counters with a wide grin and a giggle, nudging my shoulder for the second time.

I used to think, when I was naïve and I had no idea what love really felt like—before I finally admitted to myself that I was falling head over heels for Rachel Berry—that television and movies were nothing but gross exaggerations. I had always found it ridiculous how, once the starry-eyed protagonist got a chance to touch or be touched by the person they loved, they pledged never to wash that part of their body again—but, right now, as ridiculous as it sounds, I am seriously considering it.

Eventually, when higher-level brain functions return, I begin to defend myself, though it's not a particularly solid rebuttal.

"It's not entirely my fault," I insist. "When you were showing me all of the music on your iPod, I didn't see a lot of alternative."

I'm surprised that I managed to get such a complex sentence out in one try.

She seems to accept my answer, however, because she relents, her lips drawn into a wry frown as she says somberly, "A sacrifice I was disheartened to make." I search her face, confused, only to see that her frown has collapsed into a sincere pout. "There wasn't enough room for all of it."

I gape at her openly, forgoing any attempts—which would be futile anyway—to conceal it. _You've got to be kidding me. _

"Are you serious?" I ask, to which she nods. "But—you Again, eloquence and articulation fail me. "Rachel, that thing is huge," I remind her. "It's sixty gigabytes."

The chocolate depths of her eyes are bright and alive with mirth, and the sweet melody of her laughter accompanies it. "I know," she says.

_Sixty gigabytes? _I repeat to myself incredulously. _That's got to be like…—that's almost twice as much as I have. More, even! She has __**more** than that._

I flounder for a moment, uttering mostly unintelligible syllables, before I finally ask her, "How much music do you have exactly?"

"A lot," she says, with a tease in her voice and a secret grin on her lips that successfully induce my heart to skip. She tilts her head just the slightest degree. "Trust me."

Awestruck—and trying to catch my breath—I fall silent. I can't think of anything else to say. It isn't a secret that music is important to Rachel, and while I wasn't under the impression that she only listened to Broadway and Jazz, I never expected that her tastes would be so diverse as to encompass the spectrum of nineties alternative, or that her collection of music is double the size of my own. It's a difficult concept to wrap my head around. _Sixty gigabytes—really? That's insane._

Rachel doesn't seem to mind the silence. As she walks beside me, she embraces the stillness that has come to settle around us, taking the opportunity to gaze across the fields at our surroundings—which is more than I can say for myself. I can't take my eyes off of her. I watch her movements, study her face, and, eventually, I begin to wonder if there's something on her mind. She sways lightly with the rhythm of her feet, a gentle dance of left and right, peaceful and at ease from a first glance, but there is a faraway look in her eyes, a contemplative distance that betrays the gravity of her thoughts.

_What are you thinking, Rachel?_

"There's only one more thing I haven't told you about the festival," she says softly, as if she heard me. Her eyes wander across the sky. The tone of her voice makes me think that maybe she's saved this part for last on purpose; I can feel that there's something significant about what she wants to say.

She moves gracefully at my side while I await her explanation, but she doesn't continue immediately. Instead, she smiles to herself, her lips lifting upward into the secret curve that teases me endlessly, and she crosses in front of me, twirling to pass me backwards as she goes. Our eyes meet, a deep, magnetic tension condensing between us, drawing me after her, into her. I feel like I've been drugged, dosed gently but heavily with a relentless, fluttering anticipation. As she moves, I'm transfixed. She holds my eyes with her own, my heart with her smile, and I hold my breath in my struggling lungs until she slips from view, vanishing behind the partition of chain-link fence we're headed toward, posted near the outer limits of the baseball fields.

"They had the most beautiful hand-crafted jewelry there," she says from the other side, and though I can't see her face, her voice is clear.

_Jewelry? _I echo silently, yet I find that my confusion is brief, cut short and replaced by distraction.

Through the crosshatching pattern of wires, she is enveloped in a tantalizing, beguiling shroud. I catch only brief glimpses of her beauty, fleeting moments of focus—the curve of her jaw; the moistened pink of her lips; a brief flash of chocolate tresses laid against bronze skin; chestnut-chocolate eyes searching for my own. She continues walking, moving without hurry, languid and unrushed, and though it prolongs the duration of the distance between us, I don't mind. I move with her, eager to follow, to see, anticipating and savoring each captivating glimpse of her that I can get.

There is something distinctly intimate about seeing her through the diamond-cut vacancies of the chains, watching her fingertips trail along the peeling lacquer of the metal and dip into the empty hollows of each section that they pass…

I swallow thickly. My hand rises to mirror hers, aching to feel her, but I draw it back—hopefully before she has a chance to notice. _It's not an invitation_, I remind myself, though, even inwardly, even consciously, I lack conviction. She's entrancing, hypnotic, and even though I know I shouldn't be, I'm all too willing to submit.

Seemingly oblivious to my struggle, Rachel continues speaking from the other side, and I grasp blindly to comprehend her. "They cut jewels and stones and set them in rings and in pendants, and they braided them into the most intricate necklaces," she explains, her tone light and reverent, her sincerity about their importance obvious.

I still don't understand why exactly she's telling me this, but, then again, seeing her as I am, when every aspect of her being teases me—her voice, her skin, her scent, all barely restrained behind the barrier between us, begging me to find a way through—I can't even understand why my last name is Fabray.

The opposite end of the partition approaches. Rachel beats me to it, catching herself on the outermost support bar, using the gentle momentum of her movements to swing around it until she faces me. As she leans into the post, waiting for me to reach her, I'm overwhelmed by her beauty, finally able to see all of her at once again. My breath catches in my throat, my lungs malfunctioning. My stomach flips like a pancake handled by an overzealous chef.

_My God… You are so beautiful…_

After I've finally ceased to move, standing before her, Rachel raises her hand, and I watch, transfixed, she allows her fingertips to trail along her collarbone. Erogenous shock roots me to the ground, like a bolt of lightning, liquefying my insides. I can't even blink. _Rachel… What—?_

I wonder briefly if, somehow, she's realized how easily she affects me and she's just doing this to tease me, before her searching fingertips find what they're looking for: a pendant, gleaming in the pale sunlight when she disturbs it, hanging on a fine golden chain that crosses and lies just beneath her collarbone. Though I've been with her for at least twenty minutes now, this is a part of her wardrobe I honestly hadn't noticed; though how I've missed it, I have no idea.

She takes hold of the pendant and draws it away from the smooth plane of her skin, raising it, showcasing it, so that I can see it better, but my eyes are slow to focus on its shape, the gears of my mental processes jammed, my gaze fixed on the bronze silk beneath it. Her gaze lingers on my face for a moment before she drops her eyes to the pendant herself. I have only enough presence of mind to notice that the shape of the pendant itself is a delicate golden treble clef, overlaid in the center with a small aquamarine star, which I imagine has to be the same jewel-like stone she was telling me about before. She traces the edges of the note with surprising tenderness.

"My parents bought this for me," she says softly, and though her voice drops to a whisper, I can just hear her when she continues, "and…"

She trails off, but, for the moment, it doesn't occur to me as particularly pressing. My gaze has wandered back to the bronze silk of the skin she had so innocently drawn my attention to. I realize, now, with my attention explicitly focused there, that these summertime camis she seems to be fond of are going to be the death of me. They bear so much; her shoulders, her neck, her collarbone—all of which beg to be touched, to be kissed…

Not for the first time, I wonder how I'm going to survive this summer. Faced with _this_, I don't think it's possible.

Once I regain my capacity to think, I realize that Rachel still hasn't continued. Her eyes are still lowered, focused intently on the pendant at her fingertips. Only the fact that the corner of her lip is drawn nervously between her teeth betrays her. Curiosity piqued, I try to encourage her. "And…?"

Rachel peers up at me shyly. When her lips curve into a smile, one side still caught and held by her porcelain canines, it's a struggle to recall what exactly we're supposed to be talking about. She shifts her weight, pushing away from the post at her side, almost as if, despite her grin, she's nervous.

"_And_," she mirrors with a subtle tease, mimicking both of us simultaneously, before her voice dips lower, shy as she continues, "I got you something."

My heart ceases to beat entirely. _What? _I stare at her blankly, immobile, paralyzed. _Did she—? She just said— No, I must have— She didn't—_

Rachel drops her eyes once more, this time to her skirt pocket—a feature that I'd been completely oblivious to, due to its impeccable camouflage—and she reaches into it delicately, searching for a moment, before drawing something free. At first, the object is shapeless to me, with no defining features other than the fact that it appears to be delicate and thin. I watch as she uses both hands to straighten it, smoothing it out, and she holds it out to show me. Numb, I discern vaguely that it's a bracelet.

_Oh, my— She did._

The bracelet is made of braided thread, just like she'd been explaining; the base color, composing the thickest part, is an off-white cream, similar to beige, interlaced with pale embellishments of jade and forest green wound into miniscule music notes that protrude just slightly from their foundation.

I stare at it reverently. I don't know what to say.

_Oh, my God…_

I breathe her name before I can help myself. "Rachel…"

She continues before I can attempt to say anything else. "There was this vendor at the end, before we left," she says, her eyes averted, gazing down at her hands. "He had hundreds of bracelets like this." She turns the bracelet gently in her fingertips, contemplative. "I saw this one, and it made me think of you."

_This… I'm dreaming. She— That's… _I swallow my heart, pounding thunderously in my throat. _Please, don't wake up. Don't wake up._

Rachel catches my eyes. "Hold out your wrist." Though her voice is soft when she speaks, and confident, somehow, she makes it sound like a question.

I obey without a second thought, lifting my right hand so she can fasten the bracelet around my wrist. She lifts her hands to the level of my wrist, and I watch her face as she works, urging the free ends of the thread into a knot above my pulse. Her eyes flicker to my own every now and then, searching me deeply, looking for a reaction, and I can only stare back in return and wonder if this is really happening. Her touch is like heaven. I revel in the sensation of her fingertips working feather-light against my skin, teasing my rushing veins, electrically charged against my nerves.

When she's finished, she steps back, the tips of her fingers lingering even as she draws her hands away. I try to swallow the bowling ball in my throat, and I finally allow my eyes to fall to my wrist. I gaze at the braided threads, the jade laid against the beige, awestruck.

_This is from Rachel_, I remind myself.

_Rachel… bought—__**bought**__, as in 'spent money on'?—a bracelet for me._

_A __**bracelet**__! It's— I'm wearing a bracelet from __**Rachel **__**Berry**__..._

My eyes are still glued to my wrist, but I can just see through my peripheral vision that Rachel has returned to her previous position, leaning into the outermost post of the fence next to her, and she hugs herself close to it—immeasurably adorable in her demure shyness, even indirectly.

A moment later, her voice, hushed, breaks the silence. "It matches your eyes."

_Of course it does_, I realize. _Like the gardenia's green ribbon…_

"Rachel, this is…" My voice is barely above a whisper. I swallow my nerves, but I'm shaken from the inside out, my equilibrium thrown awry, the world askew. My heart pounds violently. "It's amazing, Rachel," I tell her. I can't stop saying her name, subconsciously trying to affirm to myself that it really is from _her_. "I… I love it."

I raise my other hand to touch the bracelet wondrously, fondly. When my eyes find Rachel's, she smiles again, sure this time, and I fall helplessly more in love with her.

"I was hoping you'd say that," she says, and she drops her eyes, her bottom lip once again clutched between her teeth.

I'm smiling like an idiot. I can't think of anything else to say, staring at the sueded thread encircling my wrist. As ridiculous it seems, it feels warm… like it's a part of her, a piece of herself that she's given to me, a little bit of Rachel Berry that I'll always have with me—and I realize with a horrifying clarity that _this_ is what she's reduced me to: this quivering, melting mess, so petrified, still, and completely full of sap that I could be a tree.

I don't know how long I've been silent, simply staring at the thread that suddenly seems like the most precious gift I've ever gotten. It feels like it's been forever, though simultaneously not long enough—and I still haven't caught my breath. I don't think I'll ever tire of looking at it. _Rachel got me this. Rachel Berry…_

Apparently, I've been still for longer than I have realized, because, soon, Rachel pushes off from the post she's been leaning against, and she takes a step in my direction. She knows—with that perfect intuition of hers, like always—that I'm too stunned to move on my own, and she raises her hand to my waist, her warmth like fire as she slips a finger into my belt loop and tugs playfully, urging me to follow her. The jolt of excitement that circles my hips like a centripetal rocket and shoots up my spine frees me from my paralysis. I finally drop my arm, letting Rachel lead me. I follow her willingly, grinning helplessly when she tugs me closer to match her step.

Though she drops her hand as we walk, lacing her fingers together behind her back again, I don't mind. I feel like I'm on Cloud Nine.

After a moment, still dancing around the flowers and playing with the grass, Rachel prepares herself to speak again, though she hesitates before she says, "When Kurt was in Colorado with his dad, he brought me back a souvenir, so I had to get one for him too—"

I notice briefly that it seems that her voice is soft and heavy with the strains of reluctance, but the thought slips away. Cloud Nine has dispersed, and I'm hurtling back down to Earth. My stomach twists and knots, whirling and clenching at the vertiginous sensation of falling. _Of course. _My chest seizes. _It's not just you, Fabray…_

Rachel steps an inch closer, as if trying to soften the blow, and—for a reason that I can't begin to discern—a soft tease colors her voice when she tilts her head, studying something I can't see on the horizon. The corners of her lips lift gently when she continues,—but he'll have to wait to get his."

Even though she's trying to make it less of a disappointment, always able to sense how much it affects me, I don't want to think about it—but, for her sake, I try not to make it obvious that my mood has begun to sink. "Why?" I ask, referring to the delay. "Is he out of town?"

Rachel shrugs lightly, regarding me with one of her secret smiles—and though I wish in this moment that it didn't affect me, that it didn't cause my heart to race, it does as effortlessly and intensely as it always has.

Crossing another step closer to me, Rachel slips her arm around mine. Her skin is warm against mine, the smooth friction of our bodies like static, electric; and she leans into me, pressing the full warmth of her body against my side, even as we continue to move, the closest I've been to her since she invited me to dinner. Her eyes, when they find mine, are brighter than I've seen them, and she beams at me, seemingly happy, while somehow retaining that infinite softness I can't comprehend.

Dumbfounded, I can't even question her. The prickle of pins and needles assaults my whole body, thrumming in my fingers and my toes, yet it's nothing compared to the wave of heat that befalls the half of me that is nearest to her. My entire body is doused in liquid fire. I can't tell if we're still moving, or if my numb legs have given out on me; with her face so near to mine, I can only stare, barely breathing, learning the movement of her lips and memorizing every facet of the light in her eyes.

"I'm spending the day with you," she says.

And somehow, as we continue to walk along, her body pressed warmly against mine, moving in tandem with me, the fact that she bought Kurt a bracelet doesn't matter. What matters is that she cared enough about _me_ to get me anything in the first place, and that's enough. Suddenly, I'm not jealous at all.

_She's spending the day with __**me**__._

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><p>Hope you guys enjoyed it! Review if you'd like. :D<p>

Next chapter won't pick up immediately after this. There will be a gap of a couple days, but then it'll be pretty cohesive from there, for a while, anyway. Doesn't sound all that exciting when it's put like that, but, as a teaser, the next chapter features another interaction in Rachel's bedroom.]


	10. The Sun and the Moon

Hey, everyone! Wow, it has been a long time since I've updated this thing. I really am sorry about the length of the delays between chapters. If I could, I would work on this fic nonstop, perpetually, night and day—but, sadly, my schedule doesn't allow such freedom. However, I hope everybody is keeping their spirits up and I hope all the people who continue to support me are still hanging in there. I'm doing my best, guys, I promise.

To everyone who still has faith that I will finish this someday, thank you all! Special thanks go out to **ProfessorSpork**,** snarkygit**, Naiana, **SuperGirl06**, Parker, **One-Eternity-Drive**, and **Googlemouth**—each of you and your reviews have truly inspired me to continue, and I appreciate your sentiments. I love reviews of any kind, and I appreciate any endeavor to respond to my work, so if I missed any of you, never fear. You guys are the greatest!

Onward! Last chapter took place on Saturday; this picks up the following Tuesday. So, now, as promised, the next bedroom scene. Physical contact may occur. ;)

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><p><strong>Thursday, July 14th, 2011<strong>

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><p><em>Oh, God. What were you thinking, Fabray? This is— I can't do this.<em>

Staring from the end of an indifferently paved driveway at the quaint, unassuming veneer of the Berry household, my palms begin to itch, my left hand twitching by my side, assaulted by the uncomfortable prick of the beginnings of sweat. The kamikaze butterflies trapped within my stomach perform a profusion of daredevil tactics, barrel rolling and swan diving and crashing violently into one another. My heart thumps loudly against my ribs, frantic, unsettled, off-key.

Though Rachel and I have been talking almost nonstop since we spent the day together on Saturday, today is the first time in two days that I'll see her in person again—and I am utterly and ridiculously nervous. Despite my diligent attempts to talk myself out of my impending heart attack, I can't shake my fluttering anxiety.

All morning, I've been doing everything I can to calm myself, rationalizing it all several times over, assuring myself that there isn't any reason to be nervous. If anything, I tell myself, the relationship—_friendship_—Rachel and I have been developing has continued just as smoothly and perfectly as before—maybe _better_, if it's even possible. Our hour-long conversations have been running my cell phone's battery into the ground, and, sometimes, when I find the courage to push aside my second guesses, we banter so easily that it feels like we've been doing it for years. She's shared so much of herself with me these past two days, so many secrets, so many facets of beauty that no one else has ever seen that I've honestly started to believe that, just maybe, she trusts me—and I feel closer to her now than I ever thought I would.

Regardless, however, nothing that I've told myself has had an effect. I'm still nervous, irrefutably, irrepressibly, overwhelmingly so, and I can't help it.

_Relax, will you? It's not a big deal, Fabray. __You're just going to hang out with her. _

_You've done it before. What's so special about this time? __Exactly—nothing. __Breathe._

I push the disheveled, windswept hair out of my face with a shaky hand._ Oh, God._

_Do I look okay? What if__ I look stupid?_

_What if she changed her mind?_

_No—she'd tell me if she did, right?_

_What if I make a fool of myself?_

_Will she think I'm an idiot? __Will she reconsider this whole thing?_

_What if I'm coming on too strong? __Am I being too obvious?_

_Does she know? Has she figured it out? __What if—_

_Dear God, Fabray, **breathe**!_

Measuring the shallow oscillations of my diaphragm, I draw desperate amounts of oxygen into my lungs, distracting myself with the act of surveying the house's multiple second floor windows. I'm immensely relieved to find them empty, and even more so when I recall that Rachel's bedroom is located toward the back of the house, where the windows overlook the back yard and the neighboring houses, so there's no chance that she could be perched in her windowsill watching me.

The last thing I need is for her to pass by and see me standing here like a misfit garden gnome at the end of her driveway, hyperventilating and paralyzed.

_Then what would she think? _Flustered, I exhale a sigh, shifting my weight between my left and right foot. _Damn you, Fabray, and your insufferable impatience too._

Like the last time I was supposed to meet her, I'm early. Granted, it's only ten minutes this time, versus the very pathetic half an hour from this weekend, yet just being here before I'm supposed to be has me on edge, my nerves frayed beyond repair. I don't want to come across as desperate—though there's no denying by now that I am—and, even though it's absolutely true, I don't want her to see just how much I've come to depend on our friendship to give my life some kind of purpose.

As pitiful as it is, whenever I'm not with Rachel, I don't want to move. It takes effort just to get out of bed, both in the morning and at any other time. Nothing else feels like it's worth the effort of doing it. For the past two days, I've shut myself in my bedroom, keeping company with the countless books I've always convinced people I was too cool to read and the mellow alternative and indie music I was too cool to listen to, waiting for my phone to vibrate like the moon waits for the sun to set if afire.

Even when my mother somehow managed to get me out of my room—even more amazing, out of the house entirely—I was glued to my cell phone all day, wherever we went, texting Rachel for as long as her schedule allowed. When I wasn't talking to her, I was reading religiously through our older messages until she was available again.

For the past two days, my life has literally revolved around her. Rachel Berry is the Sun of my solar system, the singularity of my fragile galaxy, the magnetic North of my internal compass. She is my gravity, the axis on which my Earth rotates, the center of my world—and while I'm perfectly fine with admitting that to myself, I don't think I could survive the wreckage of my mortification if she found out. Years from now, maybe, when she's married and working on Broadway, she'll look back on it and laugh, but, as things stand now, when it feels like my whole life balances on the stability of our neoteric relationship, I couldn't live through the humiliation.

Therefore, showing up ridiculously early whenever we're supposed to hang out because I can't function without her isn't something I'm particularly eager to reveal.

_Like that really matters? _I scoff at my own logic. _So what if you're early? Sure, she'll think you have no life, but if you don't make a move, sooner or later, she's going to realize that you're out here just staring at her house, and you're going to look like even more of a creeper—and then what would you do? _

Honestly, I'd probably bolt down the street and start digging my own grave.

_This is so ridiculous, _my inner, self-assured Quinn announces as I lift my hand to push the wind-tousled hair from my face once more. _Just __**move**__ already!_

I take a deep breath, drawing it in until my lungs burn and protest, and my hand instinctively seeks the bracelet that Rachel brought me from the music festival—a new habit I've come into. Whenever I feel particularly nervous—which is approximately ninety-eight percent of the time I happen to find myself with Rachel—or lonely—one-hundred percent of the time that I'm not—I've taken to using it as a security blanket, rotating it around my wrist, just to remind myself that it's there.

My subconscious and conscious minds often argue about exactly how pathetic it is, but I haven't come to a consensus.

All I know, whether it's pathetic or not, is that it makes me feel better, just feeling the sueded thread against my skin. It reminds me that all of this is real, everything is actually happening and I'm not imagining it all—that I don't have to imagine anymore. It reminds me that this isn't a dream.

Another deep breath does little for my nerves. _Move, Fabray, _I command myself._ Her neighbors are going to think you're stalking her…_

Taking the first halting steps towards the house, I swallow my apprehension, reminding myself to breathe. I tread the concrete of the driveway as if it could give way any moment. Despite the strong initiative, my gossamer confidence falters after I've climbed the few porch steps, once I feel my shoes begin to sink into the pliable doormat; though I've already raised my hand to knock, I pause involuntarily, wavering. _Oh, come on! _I shake my head, my frustration helping to push through my hesitance. The sharp sting of the dark mahogany wood against my knuckles sobers me. I try to coach myself out of my distress, into an easier state of mind, counting to myself, naming multiples of three and six, reciting exponential figures. _Relax, _I bid myself,_ or you're going to give yourself a panic attack_.

However, in effect, my pep talk is useless. Waiting for the door to open, I'm a nervous wreck. I wonder—with an uncomfortable degree of apprehension—who will answer. Both of Rachel's fathers' cars are still in the driveway; either Mr. Berry could be on the other side to receive me.

_What if they've seen me standing out here? _I rub my sweaty palms against the thighs of my jeans. _I'll look like a psychopath for sure._

My throat contracts uncomfortably. _I'll be shipped off to an asylum and Rachel will never talk to m—oh, my God, what if **she** answers the door?_

The inner mechanisms of the lock imbedded in the thick wood begin to click, and the sound is daunting, violent and threatening to my skittish nerves. _Oh, God._ Inwardly bracing myself as the catch releases and the door begins to open, searching deeply within myself for a hidden reservoir of courage, I do my best not to flinch away.

Daniel appears in the doorway, the epitome of the warm-hearted American father, dressed to impress in slacks and a shirt and tie, calm and composed, with a coffee cup in hand, a haze of heated vapor rising from within and swirling about the rim. He's wearing glasses this morning, and I wonder briefly if he needs them to read the paper—if he even _reads_ the paper—until I notice, with a surge of relief, that his expression refashions itself, shifting from expectant to welcoming as recognition settles in. His hazel eyes, just a shade or two darker than mine, betray his inherent kindness in a way powerfully reminiscent of Rachel's.

_Thank God, _I inwardly remark, allowing myself to release a heavy sigh indicative of alleviated tension, conspicuousness be damned. My agitation begins to drain away_._

"Hello, Quinn," Daniel says with a smile. He raises his cup to take a perfunctory sip of coffee, and the simple ease of his demeanor is comforting to my shaken nerves. It helps calm me down, hushing the intensity of my anxiety to what is at least a somewhat manageable level.

"Good morning, Mr. Berry," I reply from the doormat, feeling as though I'm finally able to breathe again. As I hold his gaze, I don't have to prompt myself to smile back at him, or to mind my manners. Even though this is only the second time we've met—or the third, technically, if the ride home he offered me last week counts—it's easy to talk to Daniel, end even easier to be polite. Though 'good manners' have been cemented into my mental schematics from birth, courtesy of my aristocratic father, I have realized that they come from a more honest place regarding either of Rachel's parents. When I tell him, "It's good to see you again," I honestly mean it.

Daniel chuckles, perhaps at my formality, though he steps aside to let me through regardless, nodding. "Likewise."

As I cross the threshold, I can just catch a hint of the wafting scent of his coffee, the earthiness of it twisted the slightest bit with a sweet tinge of hazelnut. Once I've let myself settle in the foyer behind him, I realize that the whole house seems to echo the scent and its implicit warmth, and, immediately, I feel at home.

"Rachel's upstairs," Daniel says once he's shut the door behind us, drawing me from my thoughts. Gesturing with his coffee cup to the ceiling, he offers me an easy grin, and I wonder for a moment if he can't see through me just as well as Rachel can. "I don't think she's ready just yet, but you're welcome to go and check."

I nod in response, preparing to decline and offer to wait instead, but before I can reply properly, Randy leans around the corner from the kitchen, cutting in.

"Tell her to get her rear in gear," he urges, brandishing the mixing spoon in his hand for emphasis. The tease in his voice is unmistakably directed at his daughter.

Despite my nerves, inexplicably uncomfortable at the thought of checking in on Rachel when she's not ready—_What if she's not dressed?_—I have to laugh with him. "It's okay," I assure both of them, though neither father looks particularly convinced. My face begins to warm. "I'm a little early."

Randy gives the most tasteful guffaw I've ever heard, something akin to a hoot of laughter, and shakes his head. "Please, Quinn," he says, hushing my protests. "Rachel has been running around up there for almost an hour. Not only should she be ready; she should be halfway through Bloomingdales by now."

I'm shocked into silence. _An hour?_ Fingering the bracelet around my wrist, I try valiantly to disregard the ill-founded notion that she might be trying to impress me. As I try to sort through my thoughts, both men watch me expectantly. Randy raises an eyebrow, smirking; Daniel takes another sip of his coffee.

_There's no way I'm going up there, _I resolve, but, despite myself, I find that I'm already trying to steel my voice, giving in. "Alright," I squeak.

Randy encourages me with a definitive nod and another triumphant motion of his mixing spoon. "Give her what for," he jokes, before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Daniel chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he sips his coffee. He begins to move towards the kitchen, musing aloud as he goes, "And he wonders where Rachel gets her theatricality." Before he disappears from view, he shares a conspiratorial wink and a grin, simultaneously encouraging me further.

I feel my lips turn upward in response, silently agreeing with his comment and appreciating his support, but once he has rejoined Randy in the kitchen and I'm left alone, the empty staircase stretching out before me effectively wipes the smile off of my face. I swallow my laughter, my palms pricking with perspiration. The stained lacquer of the wood is both inviting and intimidating, daunting, taunting me, and though my direction is clear, I find that I can't move. My feet have once again fused themselves to the floorboards, rendering me immobile. For what feels like the tenth time this morning, I ask myself, _What were you thinking, Fabray?_

I honestly don't know if I can do this.

_It's bad enough that you're early—now you're going to invade her privacy too?_

_Well, obviously, her fathers think it's the right thing to do, so why shouldn't I? _

_Santana used to do it to me all the time!_ _Isn't that just what girls do?_

As I stare at the unblemished wood and the dark velveteen fabric of the rug that overlays the center of each step, I realize that I'm moving closer, though not of my own volition. My subconscious need to see Rachel has defeated my apprehension at showing up unwanted. I've been waiting all morning to see her—three and a half hours of endless butterflies and nervously checking my appearance in any reflective surface I happen to pass—and the impulsive command center of my _id_ doesn't want to listen to my torn, uncertain _superego_ any longer. Truthfully, the only thing that matters now is that two days is far too long to be away from her.

The first step I take is soundless, as well as the second, and the third. The ambience of the house is still and silent but for Daniel and Randy in the kitchen, whose voices fade the farther I ascend the stairs. The only sound that betrays my presence is internal: the surging torrent of my blood raging like whitewater rapids through my veins, an unmistakably frantic rhythm like a million taiko drummers beating against the inside of my chest. As I reach the landing of the second floor, my lungs contract tightly and hold, tension consuming me once more; I haven't even reached Rachel's bedroom, and my involuntary bodily functions are already shutting down.

Yet, as I turn to look across the hall, surveying the glittering luminance of her name across the door and the lustrous star that follows it, my body reacts, injecting itself with a dose of warmth that loosens the tightness in my chest. _Rachel. _Just thinking her name is enough to turn me inside out. Moving forward, I feel weightless. I stray deeper into the hall, becoming aware along the way of an ambrosial scent that drifts about to meet my nose, the scent I've come to familiarize with the combination of Rachel's redolent shampoo and her delicate perfume. I follow the scent, the ghost of her presence, until I reach it's voluminous origin at the end of the hall.

Nearing the door, I realize that, today, it isn't closed entirely, left open just far enough that I can see the corner of her bed across the room. A soft melody flows outward, carried along the same vague currents as her scent, so faint that I have to lean close to hear it, balancing myself against the doorframe, my ear inches from the wood of the door as I hang there, suspended in my curiosity and awe. Somewhere within, at much too far of a distance, I can discern Rachel's voice joining in and accompanying the music, and it is infinitely sweeter because of her. Though I don't recognize the song, listening to her sing it, I feel like I could have known it all my life.

Even though I can't actually see her, in response to her voice, my heart aches and soars and melts and swells all at once. I wonder how it's possible to be so absolutely in love with someone, to be affected so much by them. My chest feels like a fishbowl, impossibly small for my heart, the size of a whale, trapped within it.

As close as I am now, not even my apprehension can stop me. I raise my hand to knock—against the frame rather than the open door, in an attempt to avoid any sort of potential disaster, in case she isn't fully clothed—though I realize a moment later that the sound is weak, and it doesn't carry far against the music. Just to be safe, I wait for a moment, searching the sounds that may serve as an answer. The music doesn't stop, nor does the angel singing in the background. _She didn't hear me._

I take a breath and knock again, louder this time. I do my best to make my voice audible. "Rachel?"

Her voice in the distance fades out, followed by the sound of something being put down, and my nerves quiver with anticipation beneath my skin. Hurried footsteps cross the room; my palms begin to sweat. _Oh, God. Rachel. _My heart pounds rapidly beneath my chest._ Rachel, Rachel, Rachel— __Calm down, Fabray. Breathe. _I try to measure each desperate gasp of oxygen, to no avail. _Three, nine, eighty-one, six-thousand five-hundred, sixty— _I can _feel_ her getting closer. _Rachel_…__

The door swings open, revealing a breathless, smiling goddess on the other side. "Hey!"

I must have caught her in the middle of brushing her hair, because all of the silken chocolate locks are drawn over one shoulder, untamed, cascading like a waterfall from around the delicate curve of her neck. A lock or two has slipped away to caress her cheek.

_Oh, my God… _I'm just as breathless as she is; I've forgotten how to breathe entirely.

As ever, she's a vision, radiant in her beauty, seeming to glow from within, yet she's abandoned her summertime cami today, donning a shirt instead, a thin, diaphanous material, dyed a delicate peach—a hue irrefutably perfect laid against her skin—the cut of which embraces her slender frame with all the affectionate proximity of a lover, melded to her body. Though it's dissimilar to her barely-there camisoles, it isn't any less tempting. The sleeves are short, cutting off just as her shoulder curves down into her arm, and the neckline, dilated to reach almost to the upper curves of her shoulder, drops well below her collarbone in a subtle V. Again, her skirt is white, but, for the first time since the café, devoid of the layered tiers of ruffles. Instead, the bottom hem is lined with a delicate lace, dyed a peach hue identical to her shirt, flared just the slightest bit where it falls against her thighs. The insignia of a logo is branded just above it, but I can't focus on it long enough to read it; I spare it only enough attention to recognize that it too matches the hue of her shirt.

My heart and my stomach are twin gymnasts, pulling stunts that I never had the guts to try, even when I was the best on the squad, and I feel lightheaded—but I can't help smiling to myself when I notice that, beneath all of her feminine girlishness, she's wearing a pair of worn down Converse shoes instead of flats.

She's so utterly adorable that I find myself relaxing before I realize what's happening.

I don't even have time to chastise myself for staring, or for taking so long to respond; my voice escapes on the first breath that passes my lips. "Hi."

Her lips flex into a wider smile, her chocolate eyes dancing—and I realize that it's probably because I sound so moronic—before she bites her lip. "I'm late," she says, as if it only just occurred to her, and her smile collapses slowly into a worried frown, her eyebrows knitting together. "I'm sorry."

_How can you still be so beautiful, when that look could break my heart?_

I shake my head in response, anxious to reassure her. "No, it's alright," I promise, and I admit with more than a little embarrassment, "I'm early."

Her concern vanishes instantly, replaced by a secret grin that I try not to spend too much time analyzing, a familiar luminance returning to her eyes. As she takes a step backward, pulling the door open to a wider degree, encouraging me to follow her lead, she bounces lightly on her feet. "More time on your hands?" she teases.

_So much for being discreet. _Mid-step, I duck my head, trying to conceal the flush that rises in my cheeks as I pass her. "Yeah," I respond sheepishly. "Too much."

She laughs quietly to herself. "I wish I had that problem." Swinging lightly at the door, she waits until I've found a spot to stand and shifted nervously in her direction to speak again. "Do you mind if I finish getting ready?" she asks, and she gestures toward the adjoining bathroom. "It'll just be a minute, I promise."

When she bites her lip, awaiting my answer, I almost lose my train of thought, but I manage to recover. "Not at all," I assure her. "Take your time."

Radiant smile back in place, her fingertips graze my wrist as she steps away, and I quiver on the spot. "Thank you," she says, and she holds my eyes, once again proving that she's far more coordinate than I am, walking backward toward the bathroom, perpetually light on her feet. "Make yourself comfortable."

_With you here, looking like that, looking at me like this, I don't think that's possible, Rachel…_

I nod anyway, earning another flash of her smile before she disappears, yet, standing alone in the middle of her room, I don't know where to start. I can't draw my eyes away from the bathroom, the door of which, I've noticed, has been left open, where I can just glimpse Rachel beginning to finish the task of brushing her hair—though it had already looked flawless to begin with. As I watch her, reveling in her simple beauty, it's difficult to force myself to turn away. Even though I'm sure I could watch her all day, I avert my eyes; it's probably not polite to stare, and it would be more than a little humiliating if she caught me.

I direct my gaze instead at the walls around me, once again studying the eternal stretch of lyrics that covers them. I follow the tacit melodies and hum the words in the silence of my mind, tracing the familiar words with my eyes, proud that I can now recognize each of them—but, as I continue, I notice one that I've never seen.

_~ You're the only song I want to hear  
>A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere ~<em>

Located halfway between the doorway and her desk, which is pinned, catty-cornered, at the other end of the wall, its curling script enlivens a spot that I couldn't possibly have missed the first time around. This is where I started looking in the first place. If it had been there before, it would have been one of the first things I saw.

Impulsively, I find myself speaking. "Hey, is this new?" I ask, raising my voice just enough for Rachel to hear me from the bathroom. An instant later, a torrent of fervent heat rushes upward to color my face. _Good job, Fabray, _I berate myself silently._ Tell her she can finish getting ready, then go ahead and interrupt her. Idiot._

Despite my frustration, Rachel doesn't seem to mind the intrusion. Over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of her leaning out of the open bathroom door, peering at me from around the corner. Guiding the brush through her hair—smoothly but subconsciously, continuing as if by a vague afterthought—she searches the crafted compendium of lyrics, following the gesture of my hand, before her eyes settle on the new addition in question. As recognition dawns across her face, a pinkish hue follows, deepening in intensity each moment. "It is," she admits, suddenly appearing to find the act of brushing her hair particularly interesting. She bites her lip. "How did you know?"

My heart throbs. _Could you be any more adorable?_

"It's beautiful," I reply—though whether I'm talking about the lyrics or about _her_, I couldn't even begin to discern. I turn back to the wall in an attempt to hide the flush that rises in my face at the thought. "I would have remembered it." My voice threatens to abandon me, low and soft, barely audible, even to myself. _You're murmuring again, Fabray_, I realize, the tips of my ears burning as I recall Rachel's observation in the food court last week. I have to fight to regain my focus. "What song is it?"

Though I should know better by now, I chance a look over my shoulder, and I'm met with the deliquescent intensity of her gaze.

"'Soul Meets Body, she replies, the warmth of her eyes infinite and magnetic. The combination of the words and her voice induces a jolting psychological response that I pray she can't detect; the blood in my face abruptly rushes south, a ghost of a quiver caressing my spine. She continues, unaware. "It's by Death Cab For Cutie."

A repertoire of inappropriate thoughts race tumultuously for my mouth, ridiculous notions and cheesy pick-ups—_My soul would love to meet your body, _and other utterly humiliating phrases_—_but I force them away, swallowing my leaden tongue. "I really like it," I admit, with a strained and obvious rasp tightening my throat.

The smothered, impulsive part of my brain echoes the sentiment. _I really like __**you.**_

Risking another look over my shoulder, I'm surprised to find that she's still watching me, idly guiding the brush through her silken hair. Her eyes are lit with the glimmer of incandescence, her warmth pervading all of my defenses, searching me inside and out, and I grasp hastily for something to anchor my wandering mind.

Securing a distraction, I gesture back towards the wall, and though I already have my suspicions, I ask her anyway. "Who paints these?"

The smooth repetition of her brush falters, a familiar shade of pink overtaking her cheeks once more. After a moment's hesitation, she says, "I do."

Mentally, I congratulate myself on guessing correctly, and I use the distraction to ward off the unbidden imaginings that haunt me.

I never knew that Rachel was interested in painting, or in any kind of art other than music, for that matter, but there's something about these words, something in the way they're formed, something about their delicate strength that is so absolutely _her_ that I couldn't imagine them begin done by anyone else. There is too much of her in them; not just in their meaning, but in the very form of their existence—like they're an extension of Rachel herself.

"I didn't know you painted." I'm murmuring again.

In response, she laughs quietly, renewing her efforts to brush her hair. "Trust me, I don't," she says. "I can't get a picture done to save my life."

"You could have fooled me," I say in return, and I mean it. There is obvious skill in her work. "These are really good, Rachel. They're beautiful."

I struggle to suppress the urgent need to continue. If I could only tell her—_**You're**__ beautiful._

She bites her lip, adorably bashful, unaware that every moment I look at her, she takes my breath away. When she answers me, her voice is soft, low with a mixture of shyness and modesty. "Thanks…" she mumbles. She catches my eyes one last time before disappearing around the corner with a fierce blush.

Even though I'm disappointed by the fact that I can't see her anymore, I find that I'm smiling to myself. Turning back to the wall. I decide that I like—that I _love_—being able to cause such a reaction in her. It reminds me that she's telling me things that she's never told anyone else before; that she's sharing a part of herself with me that no one else has ever gotten to see. Yet, why she chose _me_, of all people—I have no idea how I got so lucky.

As I continue looking around her room, I realize that, even from here, I can hear Rachel humming softly under her breath, and her bedroom is all the more _her_ because of it. I trace the familiar words across the wall until they lead me to her desk, where everything that rests upon it is neatly placed and organized, a picturesque model of tidiness. Notebooks, pens, pencils, and textbooks are grouped by category and subject, and the collective group of it all surrounds what appears to me a rather expensive laptop—but the computer is irrelevant. What's more important, I think, is the enlarged photograph that serves as a wallpaper: Rachel and her dads at the music festival, sitting in the midst of an enormous ring of people, all of whom appear to be clapping and laughing with one another. I realize after a moment that this must be the group of musicians Rachel had told me about on Saturday, the performers who invited the average festivalgoers to join them, her favorite part of the day.

In the picture, her eyes are bright and lively, dancing with effulgent elation, her face flushed with happiness, and she appears to be singing, even though it's obvious that she's laughing as well. She looks so _happy_, and she's so beautiful, so wondrous in her beguiling rapture that my heart aches at the sight of her.

_I wish you were that happy all the time…_

Even before they broke up, Finn had never once made her so apparently happy. Neither had Jesse St. Jackass, or the lapse of sanity that accompanied her consideration of Puck. Music is such an integral part of her life, written in her very soul, her true love—and, standing here, witnessing a testament of the only true happiness I've ever seen in her, I wonder briefly if _everyone_ else will always come second. I may have had a fighting chance pitted against Finn or Puck, if I ever got over myself and told her how I feel about her, but I definitely can't compete with _that_. I'll never be able to do for her what music does.

Yet, despite the despondency of the truth, the smile on my face doesn't falter. I'm lucky to see her this way, even if I'll never be the one to cause it. She's breathtaking. I allow myself to linger on the photo, the captured curve of her lips evoking echoes of a thousand blissful sentiments to resound in my heart and mind.

A moment later, the flick of a distant switch draws me from my reverie, and it occurs to me that Rachel must have finished getting ready.

I feel the warmth of her presence swelling like a tidal wave behind me as she reenters the bedroom, a faint weightlessness akin to panic filling my stomach with helium; the thought of being caught ogling her through a photograph is even more mortifying than being caught staring face to face. Attempting to remain calm, I draw a short breath, searching for something I might be able to use to divert her attention. Since I'm standing at the computer—and I can't think of anything else—I settle on that.

"Oh, no…" I mumble, in what I hope is a relatively convincing tone, just loud enough for her to hear me.

_If this doesn't work, I'm going to look like a total dork._

Rachel crosses the room and makes her way over to me, stopping when she reaches my side. "What is it?" she asks, deep concern evident in her voice.

Though I feel bad for eliciting such apprehensiveness, when I finally catch her eyes, as if I'm seeing her for the first time, I stumble over the words I had planned to say. My heart somersaults in my chest. I can't detect any visible differences in her appearance; her silken hair is still drawn over one shoulder, her features soft and flawless, devoid of makeup—yet I lose myself in her. I forget for a moment the diaphanous excuse threatening to tumble from my lips. I almost forget myself entirely.

_God, Rachel. How are you—? _I draw in a compulsory breath before I collapse from oxygen deprivation, and that alone takes more effort than it should. _You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. _Speechless, lost in the keen intensity of her gaze, I fight to clear my head, struggling if only to alleviate her confusion.

"This_—_" I swallow compulsively. "This is never going to work," I say finally, finding my voice. Though I meant to clarify my words by gesturing toward the desk, I forget.

Apparently unable to follow, Rachel searches my eyes—so deeply that she seems to reach my soul—for an explanation.

I feel like could drown in the dense ambience permeating the air around us.

"You're a PC," I say with as much solemn gravity as I can muster, though I feel my voice quiver. I motion to her computer, and then to myself, elaborating. "I'm a Mac."

Though my mind rebels violently at the notion—_**Like hell**__ I would let the brand name of a computer keep me away from you, Rachel_—I feel like the biggest idiot in Lima, moronic to an ineffable degree. My face burns a thousand shades of crimson humiliation—but I try to console myself with the fact that my ill-conceived plan is working.

She hasn't had a chance to mention how much of a creeper I am for fawning all over her picture, too confused by my lunacy to notice. If I'm lucky, she'll catch on to the joke, and maybe she'll even think it's clever or witty. If I'm not_—God, I hope I am._

When realization dawns across her face and she nods gravely, I heave an internal sigh of relief.

_Oh, thank Jesus._

Holding me captive with her piercing gaze, Rachel raises her hand between us, as if to shake my own, though I realize after a moment that the posture she displays is an obvious suggestion for something else. _No way. She's not— _I search her eyes intently. _Seriously—a thumb war? _She doesn't appear to be bluffing.

With a grim sobriety that betters my own performance, she intones, "To the death."

_She's serious_, I realize, melting beneath the intense heat of determination that smolders within her eyes, the tenacity she so often employs in competition.

An unwelcome jolt of excitement rattles my insides. Though I don't allow myself to hesitate to reach out for her hand, schooling my face to match her aggressive façade, beneath the surface, I'm a mess. When her hand touches mine, her skin like warm silk beneath my fingertips, the heat of hers like fire against my sentient nerves, I feel dismantled. _This… Oh, God, we're—I'm holding her hand! _Electricity rockets up my arm and ricochets against my internal organs, surging down to the immaterial hollow within where my soul must reside; I feel like I'm going to collapse. _I'm holding her hand…_

Once I've accepted her proposal, Rachel nods, though I've honestly forgotten what I'm agreeing to. "Loser has to buy the winner a cappuccino," she says.

My throat is dry, but functional. "Deal," I agree blindly—and I pray that my voice sounds stronger than I feel.

She counts us down, and we both retain the composure of our dour poker faces as the battle begins, a rapid flurry of thumbs ensuing—and yet, for the life of me, I can't concentrate on fighting her like I'm supposed to. I move my thumb, trying to pin and attempting to evade hers, but the maneuvers themselves aren't really collectively conscious responses. My muscles are on autopilot, mechanical, pre-programmed; my brain treads the fine line between overload and meltdown.

As the moment draws on, I lose myself in the beauty of our chaos. I revel in the sensation of her hand in mine; the urgent, desperate movements, the friction between us; the sound of her laughter, bursting from her lips as she begins to giggle, breaking her character; the light that brightens her eyes as she meets my unwavering gaze.

It feels so good to touch her, to laugh with her, to be able to look into her eyes and see her looking back—_really_ looking back—at _me_.

_This is all I want, Rachel_—you, just you_…___

Abruptly, the pitch of her laughter rises—and my heart stumbles beat after beat over her palpable exuberance—followed by a sweet, dulcet, yet triumphant, "Yes!" I'm still smiling dumbly, even when I realize after a moment that she's managed to pin my thumb, crying, "I win!"

Though I honestly hadn't noticed before, I nod to suggest that I did, and I smile again despite myself. "You win," I concede.

She holds my gaze, satisfaction and the tease of something more darkening her eyes; her infectious laughter is a melody, her warmth pervades my senses.

When she frees my thumb, and consequently my hand, pulling her own back with a confident smile, I feel like I've just lost the only thing in the world that's keeping me grounded, like the gravitational pull of the Earth below me has shut down. My palm tingles, the nerves jumping beneath my skin where the playful tips of her fingers had brushed past, and, standing here before her, I'm shaken, nervous again, inexplicably, overwhelmingly so. I quiver on the spot, so badly that I'm positive that she can see, and I draw my arms behind my back in an attempt to calm myself, forcing my hands into my back pockets to keep them still. My pulse races, the synaptic framework of my bodily systems surging, wired from the electric contact of our skin. I remind myself to breathe, but I'm unable to shake my nerves when she's so close.

"Consequently," Rachel says, continuing with a demure tilt of her head, "you acknowledge the fact that PCs are superior to Macs."

_Not a chance, _I reply silently, but as an enormous grin overtakes my lips, her humor calming me, I don't bother to argue.

She turns away for a brief moment to shut down her 'superior' computer—and I note briefly that the music I had been surrounded by, but, sadly, deaf to, the entire time I've been in her room ceases—before she turns back to face me with a secret, teasing smile. She reaches for my wrist, her hand warm, like velvet as it encircles my arm, closing over the bracelet she brought me from the music festival with a gentle, feather-like pressure.

Butterflies tumble end over end in my stomach. _You feel like heaven, Rachel._

"Now that that's settled," she says, tugging me along with her as she moves toward the door, "you owe me a cappuccino."

I laugh and follow her willingly, and I decide that there is nothing in the world more amazing than feeling her hand on my skin.

* * *

><p>Note: Alright, so, maybe it wasn't the kind of physical contact everybody desperately wanted, but it's still too early for such debauchery! They're takin' it slow. <em>Real<em> slow.

Note: The PC/Mac thing was totally dorky, I know—still, I just had to do it. I am a Mac myself, and I'll argue that they're better, but, you know, to each their own. Lol.

Note: I've realized that Quinn perpetually uses the words 'God' and, in this chapter, 'Jesus.' If that makes anybody uncomfortable, I apologize. I'm not trying to shove a Christianized-mantra down your throat; these words are used mainly for dramatic effects or placeholders. I mean no offense to anyone whatsoever.

Toss me a review if you'd like. I'm anxious to hear what you guys think! :D

Whew! Alrighty, so, the next chapter picks up directly after this one. Faberry Mall Trip Numero Dos. No bikinis—lame? No! Surprise guests! Brittana, anyone?]


	11. Colour Blind

Wow. This chapter has been a _long_ time coming, I know. To everyone who's been waiting, I apologize sincerely for the huge delay. The semester was starting to come to a close, so things got kind of hectic. Now, I've got a whole months' break, so, hopefully, I can get some serious work done before Spring. :D

As promised, Faberry Mall Trip Numero Dos, accompanied by the lovely Brittana. This one is super long. "F-ing Christ, Stars!"—I know. I didn't mean to make it this long, trust me. I was going to split it up into two parts, but separating them just seemed superfluous, and I thought it would flow better if it was all contained in one chapter. Hopefully, it's not too painful to get through all at once. Lol. Now, shine your glasses, grab your contacts/monocles/telescopes/what-have-you, and get to reading!

Your thoughts are always welcome. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Thursday, July 14th, 2011<strong>

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><p>After Rachel and I had left the otherworldly perfection of her bedroom behind, as I followed her down the carpeted staircase that had so openly mocked me on my way up only minutes before, I finally remembered the reason that she and I were getting together. We'd made plans to go to the mall. Though I'd never truly forgotten about it, whole-body anxiety has a tendency to cloud my judgement, and my working memory sometimes abandons me in my delirium. Yet, once I set foot on those velveteen steps once more, the clouds parted over my head, a luminous epiphany, and the realization dropped into my stomach with all the vertiginous chaos of hurtling downward on a kamikaze roller coaster—which was certainly fitting, considering the plunge I was about to take.<p>

The original plan was for Rachel's fathers to drive us, but, in a fit of moonstruck insanity, I decided at the tender hour of two o'clock in the morning, unable to sleep once more, anxious to see her, that I was going to ask Rachel to walk with me instead. It seemed like a simple request at 2:17 AM, but I found it suffocating in her presence.

Traipsing down the staircase behind her, my heart taking refuge in my voice box, I tremulously suggested taking the long route and walking to the mall. I was so nervous and shaken with such timorous apprehension that I could have, and probably would have, fallen to certain death in an inelegant heap on the foyer's elegantly patterned throw rug if Rachel hadn't been in front of me. I'd used the excuse that it was still early, that the weather was probably nice enough, and while I hadn't exactly expected her to agree to a seemingly pointless twenty-five minute trek across town, by an unprecedented stroke of luck that I'm still trying to work out, she did.

Turning back to flash a brilliant smile in my direction over her shoulder, she gushed about what an amazing idea it was, and while I melted under her eyes and her praise, she danced her way gracefully down the last few stairs. In the kitchen, she was met by countless jibes from both of her fathers, who teased her mercilessly, and with the grandeur of comedians, for taking so long "preparing herself in her boudoir." After wrestling unsuccessfully with Randy—which was one of the most adorable things that I have ever seen in my life—and tugging petulantly on Daniel's arm, her chocolate eyes fixed on them in the most plaintively heartbreaking pout, pleading for her reprieve, the two men finally conceded. Though they honored our prior arrangement, offering to drive us to the mall, Rachel assured them sweetly, with a kiss on the cheek and a hug for each of them, seemingly having forgotten that they had been teasing her relentlessly only seconds prior, that we could make it to the mall on our own, and I had only enough time to say, "Goodbye, sir," to each of them before her delicate hand had circled my wrist once more and she was tugging me out the door.

Considering the fact that the middle of summer can sometimes be unbearable, even in Ohio, the temperature when we stepped outside was placid, cooler than it usually is. I'd gotten lucky. The gentle breeze that followed us down the worn concrete streets was comfortable and pleasant, cooling my heated skin, and the sun, while in plain view above us, kept a magnanimously low profile. It was decidedly dim without it, despite the clear sky, but I didn't miss it. Rachel was radiant enough to make up for its absence. The delicate curve that graced her lips as we talked calmed me; the genial sentience and eager inquisition that lit her eyes as we walked along were far brighter and more beautiful than any ray of sunshine I had ever seen—or could ever hope to see—in my life. With Rachel by my side, I was complete. My heart denounced logic. I didn't need the sun; I didn't need oxygen, or gravity, or a functioning brain, or the blood in my veins; I didn't need anything—anything but _her_.

Honestly—though I'm sure I would never survive admitting it out loud, especially to her—asking her to walk with me was, in actuality, only a thinly veiled excuse to have more time alone with her. I wanted to keep her to myself for as long I could today, even if it was only for an extra half hour. A _minute_ longer would have been worth it.

I'd checked the weather nearly ten times this morning before I left my house to be sure nothing would interfere. The forecast called for a clear, cloudless afternoon, and even though I knew that, with all of the bad karma I'm predestined to suffer before I die, the sky could've opened up and poured down on us at any second, I decided to take the chance anyway—and I prayed endlessly and desperately all the way to her house that she would agree, only failing to persist when I was effectively distracted. Though I dreaded rejection, and I nearly changed my mind several times this morning, I am ridiculously happy that I managed to dig up some deeply hidden reserve of courage and ask her after all. I can't recall ever feeling more at peace, more content than I am now, just to be alone with her.

Walking with her has been surreal, one of those rare movie-scene moments that feels too good to be true. I've had my eyes on her more than I've kept them on my feet and the ground beneath me, and it's obvious to me that she's noticed it, but, caught in that strange, weightless limbo that passes over me, when I can finally ignore the incessant fretting of my subconscious, I find that I don't care. I can't find the strength to pull my gaze away from her, and despite my best efforts, I can't keep the smile off of my face as she moves gracefully beside me, light on her feet, seeming to twirl and dance even as her path remains fixed ahead.

While we walk, she points out and comments on things that I have seen, day after day, for years, and, somehow, everything feels like it's brand new, like I'm seeing it all for the first time. Though the last two years have turned my life into a world of twisted mirrors and warped imperfections, Rachel is making everything beautiful again.

It's like, all this time, I've been living in Pleasantville; everything is black and white, bland, achromatic, pasted on a flat, monotonous plane, devoid of dimension and color—but, suddenly, Rachel has come into my life, and she's the source of all the vivid beauty that I can see. Things that I'd passed by before, unable to perceive, are all new and lively and real. Everything she touches blooms back into vibrant existence. Like David and Jennifer in the film, Rachel is bringing color into my monochromatic life.

The longer I'm with her, the happier I am, the more alive I feel. When I talk, she listens, intrigued, engaged, as though the rest of the world holds no significance; when I make a joke, she laughs, and her sincerity shines like starlight in her eyes; when my diffident self-conscious gets the best of me, she pulls me through, until everything in the world seems okay again. Even though it's only beginning, I know that every minute I spend with her is making me a better person, washing me clean of my past.

As we wander together up the faded concrete that leads to the western entrance of the mall, I'm completely lost in her, losing myself, and loving every second of it. She's been telling me for the past couple of minutes about her most recent encounter with a kiwi—apparently, both Daniel and Randy insisted that she try one separately after she told them about our smoothie incident at the café—and I've been content to let the rest of the world fade away, focusing solely on her voice, listening to her talk. Yet as we approach the metallic double doors that loom ahead of us, the world once again becomes three-dimensional, operative, and I seize the rising opportunity. I make a point to step ahead of her—in what I hope is a less conspicuous and spastic manner than it feels—to grasp the peeling handle and hold open the door for her.

With the softest hint of pink dusting her cheek, her eyes falling demurely from mine, she accepts the offer. "Thank you," she murmurs quietly. She passes so closely that I can smell the delicate fragrance of her perfume and the faint, lingering scent of shampoo. I take a deep breath, drawing it into my lungs, allowing it to suffuse itself into my bloodstream; reconstructing my cells, translating my genetic code, fashioning my very chromosomes anew, until her scent is the primary vapor that my lungs need and crave, and oxygen is a deficient substitute. My head is light, clouded with hazy bliss, and I stare after her as she moves, smiling dumbly, while my thoughts whirl in a tumult of obscure, resounding Shakespearean verses of love—the unfortunate result of rereading "Romeo and Juliet" like a lovesick pre-teen whenever Rachel's busy.

When I finally recall the physical mechanics of my own body, I turn to pass through the door myself, stepping onto the familiar marbled floor. Rachel quarter-turns to look at me as I reach her side, regarding me with a patient smile, and I return the behavior instinctively.

"So," she chirps, a dulcet nightingale, bouncing lightly on her toes. Her arms are drawn behind her back, the fingers of both hands entwined. "Where to?"

She turns her gaze to the different shops that surround us. Her eyes trail carefully over each detail, umber-cocoa eyes still alight with her quiet wonderment, and though I can tell that she's waiting for me to pick one, I don't bother looking around—because the instant I gain my bearings, conceptualizing our relative location, I realize what she's trying to do, and I can't help the fond smile that comes to my lips.

_Oh, no, you don't, _I reprimand her silently. _You're not going to get out of it that easily._

Instead of the highly ornamented clothing stores to either side or the quaint magnetism of my favorite bookstore in the corner, I nod to the coffee shop directly ahead of us, indicating the familiar logo illuminated across the expansive hall. "Starbucks," I remind her—though I'm positive that she didn't forget.

I take a step forward, intending to lead the way, but Rachel stops me. "Quinn—"

The gentle brush of her fingertips against my wrist smothers my intention, counteracting my momentum, and I cease to breathe.

_God, Rachel. The things you can do to me…_

When she draws me back to her, pleadingly, insistently, pulling me away from the café in the distance and close to her side, so close that I feel the heat radiating through her clothing and seeping into mine, part of me—the spiritual, immaterial part—melts in molten adoration at her feet, but I do my best to hold myself together.

"What?" I ask, searching her eyes. Though it's obvious to me that, by asking where I wanted to go before I had a chance to say anything, she was trying to distract me from the bargain we made in her bedroom, I feign ignorance—because, for some reason, I'm desperate to uphold my end of the deal. Observing her intently, I can't help but notice the warmth that rises to color her cheeks when I remind her, "I owe you a cappuccino."

Her lips begin to lift in a smile, but she stifles it, closing her teeth around the corner of her bottom lip instead. "You really don't have to get me anything," she murmurs.

_Oh, my—_ I swallow a burst of thin, deoxygenated air. _Rachel Berry, you __**really**__ need to stop doing that…_

I force my eyes away from her mouth, locking our gazes, but it doesn't help nearly as much as I thought it would.

"No, really," I insist, forcing the words out against the high pitch of tightness in my throat. "You beat me, fair and square."

For the briefest of moments, staring into the alluring, inviting depths of her eyes, I fantasize about what it would be like to take her hand, to feel her velveteen skin against mine, urging her to follow me as I led her along—and before I can talk myself out of it or consider the multitude of repercussions I could potentially face, I'm doing just that, allowing my fingers to trail down the silken, flawless skin of her wrist and grasping her hand in my own.

Liquid fire rises beneath my skin unbidden, coloring my face a deep scarlet. _What are you doing, Fabray?_

My heart batters wildly against my ribcage, thrashing with all the intensity of a jackhammer. _Oh, my God. I'm holding her hand—again! __**Again! **__We're— Oh, my God._

"Come on," I plead, hindered by the crushing pressure around my larynx, tugging her along with me as I start toward the coffee shop.

Suddenly, the marbled floor warps beneath my feet, stretching outward as my palms begin to tingle. Starbucks seems a million miles away.

Rachel doesn't resist, following me, her hand warm, responsive, tactile in my own, returning the pressure, and my blood surges like a violent tsunami through my veins, burning, boiling, melting me down. I've been so apprehensive about touching her, only because I thought it would be too forward of me; I've been afraid that, somehow, if I touched her, even for a moment, she would be able to _feel_ everything I was trying so desperately to keep to myself—even though I know, logically, that it's a natural habit between friends, and also one that Rachel herself seems easily familiar with—but, as we move, being obvious is the last thing on my mind. My body resists motion, agonizing suppression threatening to break me; my tortured endurance reaches its threshold, and I'm more worried about surviving the ordeal in one piece.

I feel like I'm about to come apart, ready to crumble into a million tiny particles of stifled adoration and restrained affection.

The worst part, by far, is that the stupor-inducing tumult of Shakespeare's immortal verses that had been lingering in my subconscious creep into my mind, resounding, haunting me, taunting me with my own tragic love story. My heart recites, '_For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss…'_

When we finally reach Starbucks, close enough that we can at least read the large boards pinned to the wall behind the counter, I shake the prose from my head, lest it somehow find its way out of my mouth, and allow my grip on her hand to loosen, using the pretense of gesturing upwards to the menu to veil my quivering trepidation.

"What would you like?" I ask, and I ignore the fact that I sound like a complete stranger, discordant even to my own ears.

Shuffling from one foot to the other, lip drawn between her porcelain teeth once more in an attempt to hide her smile, Rachel hesitates. "Are you sure?"

Though her eyes search me deeply, an injection of intensity into my veins, somehow, I break the bonds strangling my voice box to reply. "I'm positive."

_I'm going to buy you that coffee, Rachel,_ I decide,_ even if I have to tie you to a chair_—a response I try to convince myself is a result of my bold, dynamic inner _animus_.

The angel by my side huffs quietly in response, feigning exasperation as she surrenders, but the subtle tug upturning the corners of her lips has exposed itself, arresting and enchanting all at once. "A caramel cappuccino," she says, the lilting dip of shyness in her voice. Her eyes drift away, her face warming again. When she returns her gaze to mine, the flush on her cheeks races down her neck. "Topped with cinnamon."

_You are the most adorable thing I have ever seen…_

Though, admittedly, I wonder why she's so shy about letting me buy her coffee—and, furthermore, why I'm so adamant about doing it myself—I want nothing more in this moment than to pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless—in a breathtaking, phenomenal sort of way, like something Shakespeare might have written before he died, because I can't seem to free my thoughts of his lexical genius. To evade humiliation, I try to put it all out of my mind.

As I nod in response to Rachel's request, taking a step towards the counter, logic jams the gears of my cognition. Everybody who knows Rachel knows that she's a vegan—yet she hasn't mentioned anything about one of the integral parts of a cappuccino: milk. It's not likely that she forgot, or that she happens to make special exceptions for cappuccinos, so I'm formulating a reasonable assumption that she doesn't want to seem picky.

She doesn't know yet that _nothing_ she could ask would _ever_ be too much trouble.

I pause mid-step to regard her, searching her eyes, and the way she fidgets on the spot implies that my assumptions are correct.

Facing her while I walk is a dangerous, but I do it anyway, shuffling backwards carefully as I ask her, "With soy milk, right?"

For a moment, she appears wholly taken aback, but her eyes soften as the flush on her cheeks fades and a smile claims her lips.

"Yes," she says, and though her voice is composed, the relief is evident on her face. "Please."

I offer her reassurance through what I hope is a charming grin—as if to say, 'I know you too, Rachel, and it's okay,' or 'You don't have to keep anything from me'—before I nod again, flushing at the thought, and make my way to the counter to place her order.

The girl behind the register smiles when I approach, tucking her ginger hair behind her ear as she asks what she can get me. I try to fight the heat rising in my cheeks—but ultimately fail to do so—at the way her azure eyes drift from me to Rachel, who still lingers a couple of feet behind me, and then return to me with a knowing gleam, balancing her evident presumption with an encouraging smile.

Mortified, even the tips of my ears burn. _God, am I really that transparent?_

Once I've stumbled through the order, I give the girl—whose nametag says 'Marissa—a five-dollar bill, and after she gives me the change in nickels and pennies, along with my receipt, she chances one more glance over my shoulder with a quirk of her lips and then disappears to mix Rachel's cappuccino.

As I wait for the redhead to return, doing my best to practice my panic attack breathing inconspicuously, in a way that the brunette behind me won't be able to see each heaving breath that passes my lungs, I count to myself by threes; by six, by nine, seventeen; anything complicated enough to distract me from the fact that even some random girl in the mall can tell how hung up I am. Coaching myself into relaxation has never been a very effective technique of mine, yet it ultimately fails when Rachel wanders into my peripheral vision like a langorous midnight wave breaking upon the shore. She settles next to me at the high countertop, leaning into it, and though it's gentle and enchanting, and she regards me with the most delicately bashful smile curving her lips, I'm so anxious that I nearly jump out of my skin at her appearance.

_Jesus— _My body jerks minutely, jolted by her presence, but I cover it as best as I can by adjusting myself and leaning more heavily against the countertop. I gulp down a sharp breath, praying that it's been long enough that my face no longer looks like a fire hydrant.

I clear my throat, an attempt that proves epically unsuccessful. "Hey," I say—and I immediately regret speaking.

_Make yourself a little more obvious, Fabray, _I berate myself._ You sound like you've been huffing helium. Not to mention, you're a complete halfwit. '**Hey**'—really? _

I'm horrified at myself, but Rachel doesn't seem to mind my fumbling idiocy. She regards me with the same soft smile I've become so accustomed to over the past week, the depths of her eyes bright with her intensity and a familiar, temperate warmth that, despite my stricken mortification, coaxes my heart's rapid pace to slow, urges my lungs to relax, and soothes my anxiety. The counter has become my crutch; I melt against it.

Rachel's fingertips play against the marble beneath them. "Can I tell you a secret?" she asks.

I wish I could tell her that she doesn't need to ask anymore, but I take the easy way out and nod instead. _Tell me everything, Rachel, _I beg her silently.

Taking a breath as if to prepare herself, she pushes away from the counter, biting her lip before her smile breaks, growing wider, a sudden and unforgiving flush rising into her cheeks. Though her eyes dip away for the briefest moment, they return to mine quickly.

As is shamelessly common for me now, I watch her, utterly fascinated, as I wait for her lyrical voice to grace my ears; I hang on her very breath; my inner-Romeo pleads from the depths of my soul, eyes raised to an unknown, ethereal balcony, _'Speak again, bright_ _angel'_—and, yet again, I curse William Shakespeare.

Almost as if she can hear me—which would be _beyond_ humiliating—finally, Rachel forces herself to speak. Her cheeks blaze as she says, "I am _addicted_ to coffee."

Even though it's the simplest of confessions, and, perhaps, not even all that important, I'm elated as ever that she wanted to share it with me. Anything she hasn't been comfortable enough to tell anybody else, no matter how seemingly insignificant it is, means more to me than she will ever know. Every diminutive detail is precious—and though her embarrassed revelation comes as somewhat of a surprise to me, my immediate reaction is a smile.

"Really?" I ask, and, for once, my voice is clear—comfortable, even—as I search her face.

Her eyes drop away, a silent, if flustered, agreement, before she grins down at the countertop, shifting closer to nudge her shoulder against my own. I burn at her touch, trying desperately to retain my composure when a vibrant tease thickens her gaze. "How do you think I got so short?"

The laugh that escapes me is quick and insistent, and despite the fact that I feel somewhat guilty about it, because I know there may be at least some degree of truth in it, I can't stop. Her jokes are even more adorable when she's the subject at hand, making fun of herself. Urging my teeth hard together against a smile the size of a semi truck, I try to stifle my apparent amusement as best as I can—which, honestly, isn't much.

I can tell by the mirroring grin on her lips that she doesn't take offense, and also that, maybe, she's inwardly pleased that she could make me laugh so hard. Though we seem to be on the same page, I attempt to vindicate myself anyway. "It just seems like something you would normally protest," I profess.

"Oh, I do," she assures me, nodding for emphasis, but her tone is wry, mocking herself again. "Extensive research still hasn't proven it to be healthy for you, it can stain your teeth, and it never tastes right unless it's nearly boiling, so I _always_ burn my tongue an admission which is so unbelievably endearing that I can't hide my smile as she continues—but it's so hard to resist." Chagrined laughter escapes her, exaggerating a dismayed wariness of herself, and she shakes her head softly as she traces the rounded edge of the countertop with her fingertips. Still, I can just glimpse a smile through the glossy veil of her silken chestnut locks.

"My dads always tease me about it," she admits after a moment. She glances up at me briefly, guiding her hair to its rightful place behind her ear. "Everyone knows that I definitely don't need the caffeine, but I absolutely _crave_ it sometimes." I hold her eyes steadily—as steadily as I can, considering the fact that I melt like wax beneath a flame at her voice—and, despite the fact that, in her place, anyone else probably would, she doesn't attempt to make a joke about crazy pregnancy cravings. Instead, to my immense relief, she offers a broad, yet sheepish, grin, which I return as she continues, "Coffee is my biggest compulsion." Her eyes, bearing into mine, are familiar in their sudden yet subtle intensity. "It's a guilty pleasure I try desperately to suppress."

Swallowing against the thickness of my tongue, her voice and that dangerous word lingering in my ears, I offer a shaky smile. _Trust me, Rachel. I know all about that…_

Thankfully, before I have a chance to make a fool of myself verbally, 'Marissa abruptly pops back into existence. Nearing us, she stretches up against the other side of the high countertop, extending the freshly blended cappuccino across the polished marble, and makes a point to catch my eyes as she intentionally hands the steaming paper cup to Rachel—authenticating my assumption that she knew it was for her all along—her mouth fixed in another knowing grin.

My face is so red, emanating such heat, that I could be radioactive. I'm practically glowing with embarrassment.

"Here you go,'Marissa says, overtly chipper, as Rachel graciously accepts the cup. "Caramel cappuccino, soy, with cinnamon on top." Above her mirthful gaze, a single ginger eyebrow lifts just a fraction of an inch, the expression nothing short of mischievous. "Enjoy." The way she says it makes me want to close my eyes and disappear into the gaping black hole of mortification beneath my feet—and to jump across the counter and smother her into verbal and physical silence all at once.

Rachel cups the paper container carefully in both palms, cradling it to her chest. She beams at the other girl. "Thanks, Marissa."

As the redhead disappears into the backroom, nodding in response and smirking at me one last time, cognitive procedures grind to a screeching halt. _Wait— No— If she— She could— _I nearly swallow my tongue. _Please, please, please, __**no**__._

I turn to Rachel, fighting the sharp pitch that returns to my voice and desperately trying to remain calm. "Do you know her?" I ask.

I smooth my suddenly sweaty palms against my jeans. _Please, Rachel—please, please, say no. If there is any mercy left in this world, you'll say no_…__

Offering an innocent smile, the angel by my side nods, oblivious to my dismay, and, even though I dissolve helplessly beneath her gaze, I could drop dead, choking on my exaggerated horror. My heart has begun to crawl into my throat when, abruptly, Rachel's demeanor changes, melding into something I've yet to become acquainted with in our short time together, something foreign and intriguing. She narrows her eyes grimly as she scans our surroundings, feigning suspicion, a single eyebrow rising—one of the particular talents that I'd always thought I had over her—and as she meets my gaze, chocolate depths of the utmost seriousness, I am effectively distracted.

Cautiously, lowering her voice to a hushed whisper and leaning close to my ear, she proclaims, "She's my dealer."

I get the joke, and even though my heart is about ready to beat out of my chest, seizing and releasing in anxious palpitations, she says it with such sobriety, her earnest expression so compelling, so perfectly schooled to match her intention, that I have to laugh. The vise closing around my throat relaxes. As her character façade fades and her visage warms into its familiar smile, an unmistakable giggle escapes her, tumbling from her lips like a melody, and my errant paranoia disperses.

The thought that—since my suspicions have been confirmed, and they really _do_ know each other—'Marissa could rather easily—and with what I would assume to be a great deal of joy—sell me out completely slips my mind. Watching Rachel laugh, laughing with her, it doesn't matter. For now, the crisis is averted, and that's enough.

As the last of her laughter drifts into silence, Rachel nudges my shoulder, urging me away from the counter. Though she continues to cradle her coffee, she doesn't make any apparent moves to drink it. Rather than being nervous about it, I assume that she's waiting for it to cool down first.

"So," she says, the simple syllable a perfect cadence. She raises both eyebrows at me, a subtle tease, implying a new direction for the conversation. "I've got my coffee."

My face warms at her tone—and at the libidinous thought that crosses my mind, urging her to tease me as much as she'd like.

With a playful smile tugging at her lips, she locks our gaze. "Where to _now_?" she asks.

I'd follow her anywhere she wanted to go, but, when asked to lead her, I have no idea where to take her. I open my mouth, and flush profusely when nothing comes out. Rachel pretends not to notice, dipping her lips to the plastic lid of her cup, blowing softly to cool the steaming liquid within it. The visual does nothing to ease my flustered anxiety, and I avert my eyes quickly. I scan surrounding shops for anything that looks even remotely interesting, and I realize that we've walked a lot farther now than I noticed on the way. Starbucks is a distant point behind us; a multitude of stores, insignificant in nearly every way, beckon us lethargically from either side.

A low, incoherent murmur reaches my ears, and I realize abruptly that I'm mumbling verbal nonsense under my breath as I consider the pros and cons of each location.

"Well, there's the— Or, you know, we could My hand rises, following a foreign impulse to gesture to some vague point in the distance. "Do you—? Uhm, maybe—"

_Oh, God._ I press my eyes shut tightly, but the nightmare doesn't end. _Stop!_ I panic, scrambling for silence, but the murmuring continues_. Shut your mouth, Fabray!_

Rachel's eyes are warm, infinite and deep, a twinkle of amusement shining through—but by some merciful miracle, the moment is interrupted before I have a chance to humiliate myself further. At a volume that has to be nearing a hundred decibels, ringing loudly and resounding around us, is a clear, unmistakable, "Q!"

I have just enough time to turn my head, catching the briefest glimpse of platinum hair and electric-blue puppy-dog eyes, before the squealing girl sprinting towards me launches herself bodily onto my back. Caught off guard under the impact, I stumble forward, off balance, but I catch myself—and, subsequently, her—easily afterwards.

Despite her formidable height, Brittany is a featherweight.

She wraps her arms tightly around my neck, squeezing me in what I've come to learn from experience is the equivalent of a backwards hug, and I catch her legs as they rise to either side of my waist, securing my grip tightly under her knees like I've done since we were fourteen. In the midst of being trampled, bent at the waist to adjust my center of gravity, I have to lift my eyes to catch Rachel's earnest gaze—a very rare occurrence that I find I don't dislike _at all_—and I offer her a sheepish grin, a silent apology that helps mask my palpable relief, but she only smiles and shakes her head.

I can see it in her eyes that she's sincere, the warm depths of them radiant and infinitely soft with the faint silhouettes of what I might be imagining as endearment and a faint shadow of fond affection; the curve of her lips is sweeter than before, almost as if it escapes her notice.

Though it happens in the blink of an eye, it seems to last a lifetime.

My face reddens further, a sharp pitch of heat spreading through me, and I convince myself that I'm imagining the implications, that her reaction is just amusement, and I'm making it into something more. After all, it must be a funny scene to witness; Brittany is several inches taller than I am, and she's sprawl across my back like a three year-old. _It's **funny**, Fabray, _my subconscious informs me sternly. _To her, it's probably like watching a blue jay give an ostrich a piggyback ride… _

Clearing my head as best as I can, just short of physically shaking the thoughts from my mind, I force myself to return to reality.

As I straighten my posture, I finally address my jubilant backside passenger. "Hey, Britt," I say, glancing over my shoulder at her.

"I knew it was you, Q!" my fellow blonde squeals happily behind me. She kicks her feet to and fro, tightening her grip around my neck, squeezing me and simultaneously rocking from side to side, left and right; and, trapped in the familiar hold of her giddy, fluid embrace, I have to laugh.

This silly role-reversal game has always been something that Brittany has reserved especially for me, ever since we first met each other. Santana loathes admitting it out loud, but, between the two of us, I possess more physical strength than she does—a surprising fact, admittedly, though there is no question that her wicked ferocity and savage viciousness compensate for it brilliantly any day of the week—and, as the most tenderhearted of the three of us, Brittany has always vigorously insisted, to avoid causing the Latina any harm, that I be the one to pick her up or support her full weight whenever she was in the mood to play. It's a very severe and chronic annoyance to Santana, one that I'm sure will haunt her until we're all too feeble walk, let alone carry each other around—but, over time, she's learned to deal with it. Brittany and I started picking up habits like this when we took Dance together before high school, and they've remained an intrinsic facet of our friendship ever since.

Just as I'm planning to tease the golden koala on my back about the accuracy of her inner Quinn-compass—one of our many pre-sophomore year inside jokes—Brittany takes a breath to continue, leaning nearer over my shoulder with apparent enthusiasm, and I decide that I can wait.

When she speaks, I turn to look at her. Her voice is rushed with excitement, and quite possibly the influence of caffeine.

"Santana said it couldn't be you," she says—alluding to the fact that the Latina is around here somewhere'cause you looked too happy and your face was _way_ red—"

Immediately, I wish that I had interrupted her. _Oh, God. _The lingering smile on my face instantly vanishes.

_Wait a minute. She's not going to— No, she— She wouldn't—_

My eyes find Rachel's, horrified hazel meeting curious chocolate depths.

"—but I told her it definitely _had_ to be you," Brittany continues,'cause you were talking but not _really_ talking at the same time—"

_Oh, my God—she would! _The blood drains from my face as Rachel's lips twitch, repressing a smile._ She's— Oh, my God._

Even before the blonde behind me finishes speaking, I know where this is going, and I pray that she stops before she gets there. Silently pleading, I beg her from the depths of my soul. _Please, Brittany. Please, please, please. Don't go there. Please, don't go there. _Indiscriminate humiliation floods my body, a jolting lurch of panic so overwhelming that it's a wonder I can still manage to hold her up.

I search her innocent periwinkle gaze, imploring her with everything I have in me.

_Please, don't say it, Brittany. For the love of God, __**please**__—not while she's here…_

"—kinda like you used to when we found Rachel's videos on YouTube, the first couple times you heard her sing."

My stomach free falls into oblivion, hurtling downward on a hellish rollercoaster. My limbs tingle, reminding me that they're still attached, still functioning, but it's hard to judge their spatial relations; I feel partitioned, weightless, drifting away from myself.

I want to drop dead.

_She __**really**__ just said that._

I spare a glance at Rachel, mortified. The faintest hint of a blush rises in her cheeks, the hue of a powdered rose—a reaction that I pray is the result of modesty and not discomfort—yet, when I meet her gaze, she lowers her eyes demurely, the infinite chocolate depths smoldering, and she hides her burgeoning smile behind the obscurity of her cappuccino. My heart gives a painful throb, and I remind myself to keep breathing.

Despite my embarrassment, at the coy curvature of her lips, I nearly swallow my tongue.

_Oxygen,_ my subconscious echoes. _Oxygen, Fabray! Breathe!_

As much as I want to be able to blame Brittany for my predicament, I can't—because she was absolutely, irrefutably right. The very first time I heard Rachel sing, I was captivated. Though I've put forth monumental efforts to forget that part of my life and the person I used to be then, I remember that moment with crystalline clarity.

It's taken me years to admit it to myself, but that was the moment I fell in love with her.

I'd only seen Rachel Berry two or three times around school by then—situations that weren't particularly pleasant, admittedly, but nowhere near as cruel or malicious as they eventually came to be over time—and while I recognized her instantaneously by her unique sense of fashion, I didn't know much else about her. The hierarchy that dominated McKinley's social structure didn't allow me the opportunity to find out anything personal about her; all I knew then was that she was 'unpopular' for whatever reason, and, from a Cheerios' perspective, beneath me and my position at the pinnacle of our distorted social pyramid. I was just starting to come into my own as HBIC—an acronym popularized mainly by Santana, of course—and I couldn't jeopardize my newfound importance to get to know Rachel Berry.

It had been the night before our first performance as Cheerios, the first game of the season, that she finally shattered my protective shades, forced me to open my eyes, and made me see something more than just a strident combination of argyle and plaid.

Santana had come over to my house after school, Brittany in tow, and, while we celebrated our popularity by wasting time on my computer, she happened upon Rachel's YouTube channel. She had begun to laugh before she even started the first video and Brittany and I joined in with her. Despite the fact that I was the de facto nightmare for a great portion of the McKinley student body at that point, I still looked to Santana for direction. Though the Latina swore it would be hilarious and pathetic all at once—and though I had agreed, unwitting, unfeeling, like a raw diamond—when the video started and Rachel started singing, I could barely breathe.

Even then, even when I was so high off my newfound popularity that I couldn't remember what it had been like to wallow in my humiliation every day as the loser 'Lucy Caboosey,' the very first time I heard Rachel sing, I was wonderstruck. I'd never been so taken with anybody's voice. Watching her, listening to her sing, catching the first glimpse of her true beauty—the beauty I had never truly allowed myself to see before, put off by her 'unfashionable' outfits—I couldn't think of a single hurtful thing to say. I couldn't think of _anything_ to say. Much like Brittany so astutely announced just now, I opened my mouth, moved it, even, but I couldn't talk at all.

Desperate laughter escapes me as a horrifyingly awkward silence settles between the three of us.

Though Rachel is still concealing her smile behind her cappuccino, her eyes have risen again to mine, dark and warm yet scintillating, boundless in their intensity, melting me inside like a reservoir of molten wax. Under the combined pressure of my mortification and her gaze, I'm quickly on my way to losing all mental capacity.

_Say something, Fabray! _I command myself, realizing that, if I don't save myself now, there's no telling where this is all going to go. If I take preemptive actions, I may be able to salvage the situation. Against the mass of nerves accumulating in my throat, I swallow thickly and turn to address Brittany.

My voice is a timbre sharp, heightened with thinly veiled anxiety when I ask, feebly, "Did Santana give you coffee again?"

"No," she replies, bearing a simple smile, dipping her head to rest her chin against my shoulder. The airy ease of her response is a stark contrast to the oppressive weight of tension—which, I've come to realize now, must be a product entirely of my own—around the three of us, and, miraculously, it helps curb my anxiety.

The breath circulates more freely in my lungs. I catch Rachel's eyes for the briefest moment, and she finally regards me directly, sub rosa smile clearly visible.

My subconscious self heaves a sigh of relief. _Thank God for you, Brittany. _

Seemingly oblivious—though I have my suspicions that, as I have witnessed numerous times, she knows more than she lets on—in a similar tone, the blonde behind me continues speaking. "I don't like coffee," she reminds me, and, afterwards, begins to bounce with discernible excitement; with a wide smile and sparkling baby blues, she declares, to the contrary, "We're sharing a latte."

I shake my head, smiling to myself—_despite_ myself—but, before I can attempt to inform Brittany that a latte consists at least partly of coffee, her formerly absent other-half appears abruptly at my side, glossy onyx hair pulled back, mocha skin, burnt mahogany eyes, and said latte in her manicured hand. _Santana._

I jump internally her arrival, my heart hammering like a maniacal blacksmith against my ribcage. The liquid magma heating my veins misses an integral route on its familiar circuit, forgoing my lungs, rushing instead from heart to limbs and back again, deprived of oxygen—cardio without the pulmonary, and a gasp catches in my throat.

To save myself the humiliation of being called out for it—a reaction that Santana would have no qualms exploiting for her amusement—I manage to channel the physical jolt of surprise into a tactical show of adjusting Brittany's weight more comfortably on my back.

Appraising me, the Latina at my side raises an impeccably arched brow. "Giddy up, Glee-biscuit."

As a familiar surge of heat rushes up my neck, I can't help but think that it's some kind of miracle that Santana is just now joining in on the conversation. While Brittany had literally bolted over when she recognized Rachel and I, Santana must have decided to take her time following after her—being that she detests any form whatsoever of haste, and that she has only ever _run_ on Coach Sylvester's orders—and I have never been more relieved. If she had gotten here any earlier, especially early enough to hear everything that Brittany said about my inarticulacy regarding Rachel, she could have—_would_ have—made the whole situation infinitely more humiliating for me.

My stomach flips uneasily at the mere thought of what she could have said, but, to put it from my mind, I scoff at her insult, and as a familiar smirk plays across her lips, I return it with a wry grin despite myself. "Good to see you too, San," I grumble lightly.

The Latina nudges my shoulder with her own, sporting a more sincere smile. "Shut up, Fabray," she chides. In a show of attitude, she cocks her head. "You missed me."

Before I can think of a retort, I'm distracted by the sudden movement of my golden koala bear. Swinging her legs languidly on either side of me, Brittany raises an arm to wave in Rachel's direction, regarding her with all the inherent innocence of a six year old. "Hi, Rachel," she says happily, lit with a genuine smile.

The corners of my lips lift of their own accord. It's not uncommon for Brittany to suddenly change subjects; most people assume that it's because she's too 'slow' to keep up with 'normal' conversations, but Santana and I have always agreed that her mind actually moves much faster than ours, and when she misses something important, it's not because _she's_ too slow—in reality, _we're_ too slow for her. To Santana and I, it's always been a similar distortion. While things are hard to understand when they're too fast, it's the same when they're not fast enough. A recording played back at a quarter of its regular speed is imprecise and it's difficult to discern what's actually being said, and that's what we've come to realize it's like for Brittany—at least, in a social, conversational kind of way.

While they're sometimes inapplicable to the discussion at hand, the things she says are often profoundly insightful, and twice as endearing. Still, I can't help thinking that this is her way of reminding Santana and I that Rachel's still here—like I could ever forget—and though I'm shamefully embarrassed that she thought Rachel was being ignored, I silently thank her for including her.

I turn my eyes towards Rachel, who responds to Brittany with a sincere smile of her own, mirroring her innocent wave. "Hello, Brittany." Her eyes catch mine briefly, lips flexing ever so slightly, softening, reassuring me—that she doesn't feel neglected, I hope—before her gaze passes from me to the brunette that mirrors her on my other side. "Hello, Santana," she says warmly in turn, offering the Latina a polite smile as well.

My heart rate picks up for what must be the millionth time today—but for a different reason entirely: the threat of possible danger. While our junior year didn't end on a particularly sour note between the two of them, I don't know if Santana is ever going to be willing to put aside the past long enough to be cordial, or even blatantly civil.

Silently, I pray that, no matter what she says, Rachel isn't offended by it. _Not today,_ I plead, appealing to the universe, the cosmos, or any benign force that will listen.

I'm infinitely and utterly surprised when, instead of snapping or insulting her in response, Santana gives Rachel her version of 'the nod.'

"Berry," she replies, in the most neutral—possibly even _infinitesimally_ congenial—tone I've ever heard her use regarding the smaller brunette.

Momentarily stunned, I pause, shocked into stillness, before readjusting Brittany's weight once more. _Did that really just happen? _

I turn to Santana, unable to disguise the vastness of my surprise, but before the Latina has a chance to notice, or to snap at me for it, Brittany squeezes my shoulder—a familiar signal stemming from our youth—and I abandon my attempt to infiltrate Santana's effortless fields of composure to respond. Lowering the blonde to the ground, I turn my head instinctively to catch sight of her, when I realize that, instead of advancing to our right side to join Santana, the only course of action that three years of classical conditioning has taught me to expect from her, she's moving the other way instead, towards Rachel.

I glance briefly at the Latina, who is suddenly and intensely occupied ignoring her surroundings, attempting to find the perfect angle for the pinstriped straw immersed in her iced latte, before I let my gaze trail back to the other blonde-brunette pair in our present company. Sudden emptiness, hollow in my stomach, serves as a warning.

An anxious sense of vertigo takes hold as I watch them, unfamiliar to me and unsettling. My shoulders and fingertips twitch uncomfortably. Churning sickness turns over slowly, viciously in my stomach; Rachel's warm eyes are locked on Brittany's, cocoa depths bright with intrigue, lips lifting, pleasantly surprised. Acute, torturous pressure encompasses my esophagus, crushing, suffocating, when Brittany, having reached Rachel, leans into her, moving close, bending low to whisper conspiratorially in her ear.

Despite her attempted secrecy, I can hear her clearly, and I assume that Santana can too.

"Don't tell S or Q this," she says, her hand cupped around Rachel's ear, "but I always kinda wanted to be your friend."

Brittany might not have been aware, but Santana and I have known that particular information for a long time, and neither of us are surprised—though, judging by the desolate scowl Santana is directing into the depths of her latte, she's just as uncomfortable with their proximity as I am.

Responding to the blonde's confession, Rachel grins, and my stomach lurches. She and mirrors Brittany's secretive tone. "I won't tell them," she whispers back.

Brittany beams at her, a metallic taste saturates my mouth, and, before anyone else knows what's happening, she draws her into a fierce hug.

The surprise that befalls us is collective and apparent, but it's most obvious in regards to Rachel, whose shock is painted plainly across her face, the deer in the headlights of Brittany's bouncing exuberance. I should be relieved that she is surprised, but the auditory impetus of the surprised catch of her breath and the hushed vocal emission that escaped her lips echo violently in my ears. I swallow my heart; it drops like a stone into my stomach; she returns Brittany's hug as best as she can.

Despite being so tall, Brittany is an 'underhugger'—a term coined by Santana—and it's always been a particular habit of hers when embracing another person to loop her arms around their ribcages rather than their shoulders—which is particularly difficult when the person being hugged is as small as Rachel, who struggles to accommodate her larger frame. With one arm returning the friendly pressure of the embrace and searching for support against Brittany's back, the other is extended carefully, to keep her cappuccino a safe distance away from the blonde's white T-shirt. I notice that she has to stretch up onto the very tips of her toes just to rest her chin on Brittany's shoulder, though she laughs lightly and lively to herself as she does so—an effect that Brittany usually has on most people—the sound like a fist to my chest.

A sharp contraction beneath my ribcage alerts me of the intensity of my jealousy, and of the dejection that accompanies it.

My insides roil.

_She would fit so much better with me… _

I trace the curve of her easy smile. I might be taller than Rachel, but I'm not as tall as Brittany, and my heart pounds furiously against my chest at the injustice of it all. I wish, more than anything, that, at this moment, I could be Brittany; that I could be the person holding Rachel, so close, making her laugh, squeezing her to my chest—but when her eyes, excruciatingly warm, endless in their depth, search for mine over the blonde's shoulder, I can't hold her gaze; my face warms, the tightness in my abdomen winding tighter, and I drop my eyes to the indifferent checkered marble of the floor beneath us before my despondent envy is enlightened even further.

'_Is love a tender thing?' _I wonder, my heart at my feet. Shakespeare. _'It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn…'_

Santana isn't in much better condition than I am; a pained tension pours from her body, palpable and transparent. We both shift uncomfortably, drawing in and holding our breaths when Brittany stands to her full height, lifting Rachel with her, until her feet can't even touch the floor. The blonde holds her easily aloft, and I cringe at the exuberance of Rachel's effervescent laughter, stomach contracting, agony, like an ice pick lodged in my abdomen.

I glance at Santana, if only to keep from looking at the torturous scene before me. Though the quivering tension of the Latina's jaw usually indicates an impending outburst, I know she couldn't bear to snap at Brittany—not since she's realized just how close she came to losing their friendship last year. Instead, she takes a breath.

"B, let the girl breathe," she chides gently, and though it's so well-concealed, so faint, I can still detect—and fully empathize with—the jealousy lacing her voice.

Brittany loosens her hold briefly, cocking her head, searching for a visual confirmation, but Santana avoids her gaze, and the blonde obeys, reluctantly lowering Rachel to the ground. Once she's settled safely on her feet, her balance restored, Brittany steps back, removing herself from the brunette's personal space, but holds her securely by the shoulders. Locking their gazes, she assures her, with apparent enjoyment, "You're a super good hugger, Rach."

If I wasn't so terribly afflicted with dismay, I'd smile, because it's such an essentially Brittany thing to say.

Rachel shakes her head softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and responds with a sincere smile. "That's really sweet of you to say, Brittany. Thank you."

My stomach turns; my brain is a miserable merry-go-round. If the ground could open up and swallow me whole, I would gladly welcome it—but I shake myself free of my jealousy, shunting my bitter thoughts. I have no claim on Rachel; I can't approve or disapprove of who she hugs, or who she smiles at, or who she laughs with.

_She's not yours, Fabray. _I swallow against the thickness swelling again in my throat._ Stop, or you're going to ruin everything._

Before I've gotten a chance to fully compose myself, Brittany jumps suddenly, alive again with abrupt enthusiasm. "Oh!" She whirls elegantly on the spot, the way only a natural dancer could, finally relinquishing her hold on Rachel and turning her attention instead to the Latina that mirrors her on my other side. "San!" she exclaims, with an exaggerated whine, implying immaturity while, somehow, simultaneously managing to reveal the hint of latent admonishment. She crosses the distance between the two of them and attaches herself bodily to Santana's side, sliding one hand around her waist to pull her close, tugging insistently at the fabric of her fitted shirt, clinging to the Latina's arm. No one would live to say it, but Santana flushes hotly, the flimsy plastic cup flexing in the grip of her unsteady hand.

"Can we please, please, _please_ go to Bath and Body Works this time?" Brittany begs, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. Her electric cobalt eyes are bright, lustrous, pleading, the familiar expertise of her puppy-dog gaze working its magic. The moment Santana opens her mouth to decline, the blonde interrupts. "You promised!"

Santana makes a show of rolling her eyes, huffing, yet gives an exaggerated nod, appeasing her. "Alright, alright," she finally relents. "We can go." She holds carefully to their latte, angling it away from their bodies, attempting to protect it from the physical tremors of Brittany's resulting exuberance.

Though Santana fights to retain her air of begrudging dismay—after arguing for years that Bath and Body Works isn't her scene and that it's only for porcelain dolls like Brittany and I—when the blonde throws her arms happily around her, thanking her with an excessive, exhilarated satisfaction, the tension that's been building like the toxic fuels of jet propulsion inside her, though obvious only to me, visibly drains away, and an impossibly subtle smile takes her lips; and at the ineffably tender moment, I find that my restless agitation begins to dissipate too—granted, by the slightest degrees.

Brittany has yet to cease jumping, and Santana urges her into stillness. "Chill for a sec, B," she says, though, by now, she doesn't sound the slightest bit annoyed. Her repressed laughter is evident. "I'm 'bout to wear this damn latte."

The blonde laughs. "Don't worry, S," she says, but calms herself obediently. "I'd clean it up for you."

Santana bumps her forehead against Brittany's—in their language, a response that translates roughly to 'knucklehead'—and allows the comment to pass unrecognized, effectively ignoring the implications that the blonde surely didn't realize her words would entail.

I choose this moment to avert my gaze, giving them a moment, and, inevitably, drawn by a magnetic force that I'm powerless to resist, my eyes find Rachel's.

A thousand butterflies, bubbling like unsettled carbonation, awaken in my stomach, climbing until they reach the cavern of my ribcage and swarm my palpitating heart. I haven't been trying to avoid her gaze deliberately—at least, not in a conscious manner—yet I get the sense that she thinks I have been, or at least that I'm upset about something. Her eyes, darkened, veiled by emotion, are as boundless, deep, and intense as I've ever seen them, humble, apologetic—_Pained?_—searching my soul.

_Good going, Fabray,_ I commend myself with copious disdain. _You've ruined everything already._

I wrack my brain, grasping at anything that might salvage the situation, yet I come up empty-handed. There's nothing I can do that will erase what's already been done. _I blew it. _Brittany, however, always five steps ahead, turns her attention from Santana to to Rachel and I, intervening on my behalf and bearing the burden for me.

"You guys should totally come with us," she says, accompanying the plea with her unfailing puppy-dog eyes, turning them to me, then to Rachel, and switching back and forth between the two of us. "It'll be way funner with all of us there. You can help me pick new lotion!"

My eyes are reluctant to return to Rachel's; they resist movement, lingering on Brittany, immobile. The back of my neck suffers the microscopic, needly puncture wounds of discomfort, and my hand rises to rub the persistent sting away. _Look at her, Fabray. _Gripping the fine hairs at the nape of my neck in my hand, I allow my gaze to trail back to Rachel's, wordlessly echoing Brittany's request—searching for an answer, though terrified of what I might find.

Rachel's eyes melt into mine, seeming to reach depths within me that I've yet to reach myself, but I have no idea what they are trying to convey. I'm rooted to the spot under her gaze, motionless, immobilized by her intensity. Searching her face for the answers that elude me, I realize that she's waiting for me to make the decision.

_She knows._ Ever in tune with my translucent emotions, she knows that I'm upset. _She's leaving it up to me, trying to be fair, for my sake._

I hold her gaze, doing the best I can to show her that I understand. I need to fix this. I can't let her think that I'm mad at her, or develop the idea that I don't want her to be friends with Brittany—or, even worse, that I don't want her to befriend any of my friends.

_Grow up, Quinn, _my subconscious demands. Raving, it reminds me how monumental of an opportunity this is.

"We should go," I say finally, directing the comment to Rachel. Though my heart pounds seismically in my throat, instigated by the fear that, now, it's too late, and she'll decline, I do my best to talk around it. Attempting a joke—hopefully, to lighten the mood, to prove to her that I'm not upset—I offer her the closest thing to a charming smile I can muster at the moment. "I guarantee you'll never have as much fun with soap again." My awkward laughter falls flat.

"Not while you've still got clothes on, at least," Santana throws in afterward, her mouth cocked in a smirk, and Brittany laughs at her side, squealing her name.

Focused so intently on Rachel's face, searching for any sign of response, rolling my eyes isn't possible, but my forced grin widens, nearing sincerity, and I shake my head despite my lingering dread. I pray that it's not too late. In the resulting stillness, the silence of anticipation, Rachel seems to hesitate, and my heart slows, my blood thick with coagulated despair, inching through my veins like molasses, until all circulatory function threatens to stop completely.

_Please,_ I beg silently._ Please, if there is any mercy left for me in the world, please, let this be okay._

I will every ounce of conviction I can into my eyes. _Come with me, Rachel. Please._

Rachel's hands work subtly, contemplatively, over the surface of her paper cup, tracing its thermal wrapper, her gaze locked and unwavering on mine. Thick desolation swells in my throat, a mass the size of a cinderblock that I can't swallow down. _It's too late, _I think—yet, by some kind of miracle, degree by degree, her eyes begin to lighten, brightening her gaze, until the familiar luminescence is brilliant and shining, and it seems, with all the ease of a miracle, to sweep away the oppressive gravity crushing in on me. The slow curve of a smile coaxes the corners of her lips to turn upward.

"How could I refuse an offer like that?" she asks rhetorically, allowing a subtle laugh to escape her lips as her eyes meld further into mine.

My chest nearly bursts, implodes, collapses, and disintegrates all at once; relief permeates my body, erupting with all the intensity of acute appendicitis. _Thank God,_ I sigh inwardly, and, not for the first time, I wonder if Brittany, with her innocent charm and uncanny ability to save a situation, isn't an angel in disguise sent to do His bidding.

My hand drops from my neck, the prick of discomfort soothed, and a smile comes to my face.

_Thank you, thank you, thank you_…__

Her request granted, said angel gives a whoop of excitement, jumping at Santana's side and once again threatening to spill their latte. The brunette grumbles, gripping the blonde's waist in an effort to keep her still while steadying their precariously balanced cup, but as riled up as she already is—a state that isn't easy to overpower or repress—Brittany doesn't pay her any attention.

"Race you," she dares, directing a broad grin at Rachel and I.

An instant later, she has the Latina's wrist securely in her hands and she's half-coaxing her to follow and half-dragging her along, despite the indignant yelp of surprise that escapes her captive. "Come on, San!" she urges. "_Andal__é!_ We gotta get there before all the samples are gone!"

Brittany's exuberance is infectious, and, as nervous as I am, in such an impressionable mental state, I begin to laugh as they gain the lead, plunging further and further into the distance with the bubbly blonde in the lead and the stumbling, grumbling Latina bringing up the rear, rambling a list of empty threats in Spanish.

Left in their wake, I chance taking a glance at Rachel, and I'm relieved to see that she's laughing too.

The relentless anxiety that's been eating at the depths of my mind begins to ease. Even though I'd been worried that the tension between us, separating us, isolating us into two distinctly separate entities, might have lingered, with her cocoa eyes on mine and the familiar, gentle warmth of the smile on her face, the despair weighing my shoulders slips away, dissipating, swept into the ambience around us.

She moves; I move, like a harmony. We match each other's step as we begin to follow after the pair—several yards, by now—ahead of us. Neither of us are in a hurry to reach them. Rachel sets an easy pace at my side, softly and slow, ever in tune with my complexity, the intricacies that diffuse the clarity of my mind and my intentions.

Even backwards, upside-down, and inside out, she can read me.

She catches my gaze, offering a gentle smile, and, drawn into her eyes, lost in the endless depths of chocolate and chestnut that seem to promise it's exclusivity, I can almost forget the disastrous, resistant polarity I'd caused to come between us. I can push it out of my mind like it never happened, because, when she looks at me like this, like she can see into the deepest refuges of my mind—of my _soul_—and isn't uncomfortable with or disappointed by what she sees, it feels like nothing else in the world matters.

Even so, still, under her ardent intensity, I can only hold her gaze for so long without dismantling completely.

Alone with her now, after what has felt to me like a lifetime, years ticked off in torturous, agonizing seconds, the tremulous currents of nervous excitement renew their livewire circuits beneath my skin. I'm suddenly anxious in an all too familiar way, my stomach tumbling with resuscitated butterflies. Taking a slow breath that's several minutes overdue, I rub my damp palms against my jeans, taking a breath, and I bury my hands in my pockets.

_What happens now? _I wonder, studying the gradual, oscillating movement of my feet beneath me.

I'm not sure if I should be the one to make the first move, if I should attempt to start a conversation, or if I should wait for her to talk first. I dare another glance in her direction and catch sight of her as she takes a sip of her cappuccino—the first that I've seen her have, since Brittany had caught up to us and distracted us before it would have had time to cool enough to drink.

Seizing the opportunity, I force my rusty vocal chords into action. "How's your cappuccino?" I ask.

It brings to mind a similar question that I'd posed before, the day all of this started, and I can feel the warmth beneath my skin rising to the tips of my ears.

As she holds my gaze, the sincere smile that Rachel offers in return flexes ever so slightly, subtly suggesting that she's noticed. I flush a deeper shade of pink, and then burn a shade further when, her eyes bearing into mine, she says, "Better than it usually is."

_Better—you mean—good? _I swallow against my suddenly dry throat._These implications are killing me, Rachel._

She takes a moment to appraise her cup, tracing the beveled rim of the plastic lid before lifting her eyes back to mine. "The only thing that tops this," she says, tilting the cup indicatively, a thinly veiled allusion in the curve of her lips, "is a Sunset Sunrise."

Even as the comment induces my face to redden further, followed by a rush of incendiary endorphins, optimism returns to me, a familiar phrase dancing through my thoughts in its wake. _'All these woes shall serve for sweet discourses in our time to come,' _I recall with a smile—Shakespeare again, and this time, I don't care.

Despite the monumental stress I'd suffered before, something tells me that everything will turn out alright after all.

Confident, I return her allusive grin. "So, if a Sunset Sunrise is you in a cup," I say, holding her eyes, "what's that?"

Her lips twitch, as if trying to repress a greater smile, yet she levels me with a pseudo-serious gaze. "My dissociative identity."

I laugh, for several reasons all at once. It's a silly notion to entertain, first of all—but the playful sobriety of her tone is adorable, soothing, and I'm consistently amazed at the sheer depth of her knowledge, awed by the fact that she's educated well enough to refer to it as a dissociative identity rather than schizophrenia or as an alternate personality. Even when being politically correct, she can be funny.

_You never cease to amaze me, Rachel Berry._

Though she couldn't possibly have heard me, she grins. "Want to try this one?" she asks, tilting the cup in my direction. Déjà vu assaults me, and for a moment, I'm back in the café, and she's offering me a taste of her smoothie; pale sunlight streams through glossy windows; strangers chatter left and right; strawberry, orange, pineapple, and peach linger on my tongue—but soon the white Styrofoam of the cup dissolves into mahogany paper and a black plastic lid, and she's offering me her coffee instead, black and white marble beneath our feet, fluorescent lights overhead. "It's just as sweet," she says. "I promise."

With a dumb smile, I accept the cup. The symbolism is just as prominent as before, striking me in more ways than one as I lift the plastic lid to the level of my mouth. I take a breath, hesitating for just a moment, glancing once more at the girl who stole my heart, before my impulses urge me forward, and I allow the lid to touch my lips, tilting it, and coffee graces my tongue. Like Rachel said, it's as sweet as her smoothie had been, and perhaps even sweeter, candied by the warm caramel—though richer, infinitely so, and deeper, with an earthy flavor that I've come to realize over the past few days definitely applies to Rachel's personality. The cinnamon lingers on my tongue, a thrilling remnant, reminiscent of her intensity.

_If there are any other parts of you that I haven't seen yet, Rachel, I can't wait to find them._

Regarding the cup in repressed awe once I've removed it from my mouth, I swallow again before I attempt to talk. "Wow," I finally say, unintentionally mirroring the same inarticulate statement I'd uttered before. I take a breath that does less good than I'd hoped it would as I return the cup to her hand. I catch her eyes for a moment, before her waiting intensity urges me to look away, lingering heat flaring beneath my skin.

_Come on, Fabray, _the unconquerable, courageous inner-Quinn trapped within me commands.

I push my hand back into my pocket, searching for courage, and force my eyes back to Rachel's. Immediately, I lose myself in the warmth that awaits me; the apprehension restraining my tongue loosens. "You have really good taste," I admit, referring to both the coffee and the smoothie—but I flush profusely at the latent implications that I didn't have the time to contemplate beforehand.

Rachel smiles, drawing the cup back into both of her hands, cradling it to her chest and lowering her eyes demurely. Her voice is low, but melodious and sweet, and unrelentingly sincere when she replies, her eyes darting quickly up to mine, "Thanks."

I grin back at her, my confidence bolstered by the gentle hue that colors her cheeks, and I lower my own eyes.

As we reach the striped, overhanging canvases marking the entrance to Bath and Body Works, I mentally prepare myself for the excitement that is sure to come once we step inside, but, now, I'm not worried about all the possibilities. Brittany may have gotten a hug, but I realize now that I've gotten to see a side of Rachel that most people haven't seen, a side they may never see; I've gotten to _taste_ that side of her—figuratively, of course—and I've gotten what equates to me as a second indirect-kiss. As of now, I think it's safe to say I win.

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><p>Note: I really kind of love this chapter. I don't know why; I just do. Even with all the jealousy, I love it. I do, however, feel intense pity for Quinn and Santana.<p>

Note: Again, it is really tough to write Quinn's inner monologue when there are other people but Rachel present. Sorry for the absence.

Note: 'Marissa' is definitely, most certainly, 100% positively based off of The Glee Project contestant of the same name. I loved her.

Note: Pieberry done right is just about the most adorable thing on the planet. Plenty of people do it better than me; I've come to accept that. First steps, you know.

Note: Santana is one of the hardest characters I've ever had to write. I'm not witty or snarky by nature, so she's a tough one to crack. Lemme work on that some.

Fun Fact: More often than not, it is actually the _male_ nightingale that sings, not the female. Take that, ill-informed eighteenth century Romantic poets!

Onward? Yes, I think so. Be forewarned—Brittany is in control of this foray into the land of lotion and we're all just along for the ride. I take no responsibility for anything.


	12. Lighthouse

SURPRISE!

I bet everyone who had been following this fic thought I had given up on it, didn't you? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you! Far from giving up, I've only been very, very busy these past couple months with school, and, seeing that I've just finished my Spring semester, I had a bit of time to work on EIN again. Literally thrilled to do so.

A note about the chapter, though. Obviously, it's been a long time since I've worked on this, so if things seem a little awkward/tense/boring/out-of-place, I apologize. It took me a while to get back into the swing of it, and, even now, I don't think I've fully accomplished it. That said, this chapter might be pretty rough. Also, a little bit in, and mainly later, there are some lines traded between Quinn and Santana in Spanish. I did my best to make them contextually comprehensible (without having Quinn literally interpret the words in her thoughts), but if there are any questions, let me know, and I can try to explain them. Following that same thread, I'm not Hispanic in any way, shape, or form, and I make no pretensions as to be an expert on the language. I haven't studied Spanish in a couple years, so my translating is a little rough. To any bilinguists out there, please, if I make a mistake, don't take any offense. (And if you critique me, please, be gentle. Lol.) I included the second language only as an attempt to build upon Santana's character, to give her a little more attention, so to speak, and to emphasize the camaraderie between she and Quinn. Hopefully, it's not too distracting, because I plan on continuing the trend in later chapters (at least, when it comes to Santana).

Uhm, other than that, I don't think I have any excuses, so I guess I'm done.

This chapter picks up pretty much directly where the last one ended. Lots of backstory for the Unholy Trinity, and mainly focuses on Quinn and Santana. Light Faberry, to be remedied immediately in later chapters. :D

I hope you all enjoy it!

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><p><strong>Thursday, July 14th, 2011<strong>

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><p>In the past few years that I've known Brittany, a lot of people take have taken her for granted. They've always been too quick to write her off; they make their assumptions too early, and they never give her a chance to show them just how gifted she really is. It's a sore spot for Santana and I, because we've known how special Brittany is since the moment we met her. Nobody else realizes what they're missing out on. While they assume that she's mentally beneath them, she's infinitely smarter than they give her credit for; fit with so much compassion, she's got a bigger heart than they could ever imagine; and if she believes in something enough, she'll fight for it with everything she has in her, against any harm that might come to her, or any chance of failure—even against Santana and I.<p>

Another little-known fact, which has come to be immeasurably cherished by the Latina and myself, is that Brittany possesses the most mystifying and uncanny ability to take the least engaging and terribly mundane things—no matter how boring they really are—and, somehow, find ways to make them extraordinary. Nobody else on Earth knows how to have fun the way that Brittany does.

Therefore, while undertaking an impromptu excursion to a shop stocked floor to ceiling with scented soaps, lotions, and candles might have been tedious in anyone else's company, it certainly wasn't the case under Brittany's influence.

By the time Rachel and I reached Bath and Body Works, the fun had already begun without us. The moment we crossed through the elaborate doorway, we were met with Santana's gaze, begging us to rescue her from the keen, attentive blonde at her side, who was liberally coating the Latina's free hand with a thick, pink, florally scented lotion—but the indulgent smile curling her lip betrayed her. Upon seeing us, Brittany wasted no time inducting Rachel and I into the fray of scented substances, and we spent the next three quarters of an hour circling the shop, allocating separate body parts for different scents and sampling the different lotions on display only to wash our hands and try another mere minutes later. Eventually, Brittany took a liking to the vast array of facial moisturizers, and she took even greater pleasure in using them to paint tribal symbols on Santana's face. The Latina grumbled incessantly through the whole process, but laughed with wicked delight when my fellow blonde insisted on torturing Rachel and I in the same manner.

I suffered the decorative procedure with only mild embarrassment, more finely attuned to the intensity of Rachel's gaze and the enigmatic curve of her lips as she watched on, and the melody of her laughter as she instructed Brittany to grace me with a monocle around my right eye. When my mask was finished—one that both Brittany and Rachel agreed gave me the appearance of an intelligent species of lion—I prepared myself to watch Rachel's transformation, but I was distracted by the Latina at my side snidely commenting on our activities. According to Santana, the four of us had fashioned a noxious billow of perfumed scents potent enough to asphyxiate a rhinoceros. This comment, of course, launched us into an extended and inevitable about of bantering, though I'm not entirely sure it wasn't merely a pretense to delay, shield, or eradicate our mutual jealousy of the scene that was occurring before us.

While Santana was busy slurping away at the remnants of her latte, fixedly keeping her eyes away from Brittany, who was doing her best to anoint Rachel's cheek with a Star of David, I utilized the distraction as well, teasing her about the obnoxious sound, which only served to amuse her and induced her to continue at an even higher volume. Feigning exasperation, I finally asked her where she had gotten the latte in the first place, as Rachel and I had only left Starbucks moments before she and Brittany had arrived.

With her mahogany eyes narrowed for effect, Santana drew loudly on her straw one final time, merely in spite, before shrugging a single shoulder, the personification of nonchalance. "Stopped at the one over on Main." Cocking her head in the vague direction of the mall's indigenous coffee shop a moment later, she smirked. "Gingersnap over there is on me like room-temp butter on a brown-and-serve roll." Scoffing at the analogy—though it was relatively innocent for Santana—while searching my brain for the connection, the face of 'Marissa waded to the surface. I nearly laughed at the irony of it. The Latina shrugged again. "B doesn't like it."

Once Brittany had finally finished perfecting Rachel's markings—and I had turned to find myself literally winded by the sight of my oblivious ladylove, envisioning her in such a state as some sort of exotic princess come to life before my eyes—the artist who had so enthusiastically painted our faces begged to be decorated herself. Rachel, Santana, and I wasted no time marking her with the most inane symbols and characters, so earnest in returning the favor that the process escalated into the equivalent of war between the four of us, during which no bars were held and we plastered one another with lotion indiscriminately, no longer limited to one another's faces.

Brittany smeared the symbols on Santana's face downward into a thick, blurry stripe, while Rachel dabbed a large blot of purplish lotion on my nose. I laughed at that, a lightness in my stomach that I hadn't felt for a long time—and though I hesitated for a moment at first, nervous again about touching her, about feeling her, reacting to her instinctively and taking the risk of losing my self-control, I returned the favor, painting a peach stroke along her jawline. Santana took the opening to loop one arm around my shoulders, drawing my back against her chest as she leaned forward and reached around with her other arm to cover my face, forehead down, with a lotion that smelled strongly of mango, and Brittany took the opportunity, laughing, to grasp Rachel, smearing another mark across her cheek and earning a flowery fuchsia handprint across her own face when the smaller brunette managed to retaliate.

Eventually, when each of our faces were covered liberally with lotions, we nearly emptied the store's paper towel dispenser in an effort to clean it all off—though the last of it literally had to be rubbed into our skin in order for it to dissipate completely. I'd watched with warm satisfaction as Brittany, responding intuitively to the frustration that had been seeping from Santana's pores, began to rub it into her cheeks for her, smoothing her hands against the Latina's face, softly urging her to calm down all the while. Even beneath the innumerable layers of lotion and the natural safeguard of her darker skin, I could still see Santana flush under the attention.

I depended mostly on myself to clean up, as did Rachel, allowing Brittany and Santana to have a moment alone. I'd thought that I was fairly successful at taking care of it on my own, but—apparently, oblivious to something of great interest—after briefly catching hold of Rachel's molten chocolate gaze, I noticed that her eyes were bright, lit with her luminous amusement. She had begun to laugh quietly to herself, raising her delicate hand to the level of her lips in an effort to conceal her smile.

Embarrassment rose in a flush of color, all the more obvious beneath my fairer skin. I paused for a moment, desperate to remove whatever I had missed, but unable to determine where it might be. My apprehension must have been visible to her, because she shifted closer to me, shaking her head in an immediate apology, hastening to reassure me. Her gaze softened as she amended herself, so close, so near to me that my hand, hanging listlessly at my side, brushed against the exquisitely wrought curvature of her hip.

"You missed some," she explained, her voice low—in a way that I told myself was contrite but that I couldn't help responding to as sensual—and, as I struggled monumentally to keep my eyes from drifting downward toward her lips, she lifted her hand to my face.

Even through all of the scents we had doused ourselves in, I could still smell the natural fragrance of the shampoo in her hair. My breath caught in my chest, my lungs seizing, as her fingers mapped their path along my face. Her fingertips were warm, heated against my skin as she traced the curve of my jawline, and I swallowed thickly, on impulse, my body motionless but trembling, my cheek and jaw burning beneath her touch. The heat flared gradually throughout my entire body, rushing in my ears, surging down my spine.

I had to fight against the urge to close my eyes, to lose myself in her. If it hadn't been for Brittany, rounding to us, holding out her hands to collect the paper towels we had used to clean ourselves up, I would have lost myself entirely in the moment.

Santana and I, by another of those dreadfully iniquitous twists of fate that always seem to find me, were left alone then.

Brittany had skipped off to deposit the used paper towels in the trash can and, after dipping her head demurely, smiling to herself, and taking a step back, Rachel made her way to the counter to buy a bottle of hand sanitizer—and, standing in sustained inertia next to one another, both of our faces warm and our breath comparatively shallow, the Latina and I shared a silent, sideways glance. Literally rooted to the ground in the absence of our counterparts, it seemed—to me, at least—that we were both in the same predicament.

To deflect the attention from herself, clearing her throat with a familiar swell of sass and attitude as Rachel and Brittany began to return, Santana nudged my elbow sharply with her own, suddenly brash, cocking her head with feigned confidence.

"Your face is redder than _una langosta el culo_," she informed me—though, even then, I detected a quiver in her tone, and the fact that she had slipped into her second language belied her exaggerated display of bravado. "Just sayin'."

Brittany began to skip by the two of us almost before I could answer, but I hastily nudged the Latina back before the blonde could drag her away—unable to let her snide comment settle as the last word—mumbling through the thickness in my throat, "Yours too." It wasn't my greatest comeback, but it had the desired effect; Santana nudged me back roughly in retaliation, flushing further when I had the gall to hiss back under my breath, "_Farsante_," the effective equivalent of calling her bluff.

Not that retorting in Spanish surprised her. We had both decided long ago that it was the best way to argue with one another, since I'd grown fluent after spending so much time with her family. It was only that I dared to call her a phony to her face that fazed her.

Our battle continued until Brittany grasped Santana by the elbow and began to wheel her towards the back of the store, where the hand soap was located—but, miraculously, the Latina managed to escape, coaxing my fellow blonde out of the store with the promise of riding the miniature carousel nestled in the midst of the high-end department stores on the far side of the mall instead.

Rachel joined us soon after, a small pinstriped bag in hand, and agreed readily when Brittany informed her of our destination. The four of us exited the store then, receiving a warm farewell from the employees—most of whom have known Brittany for several years and absolutely adore her, otherwise we never would have gotten away with such juvenile antics—and we wandered along with a great deal of aimless wonderment for several minutes on our trek across the mega-complex we were traversing. Brittany clung to Santana's arm with all the innocent exuberance of a five year-old at the state fair, chattering a mile a minute, capturing Santana's rapt attention, and Rachel waltzed gracefully by my side, content to remain silent for the moment, trading occasional glances with me every so often. With her arms linked elegantly behind her back once more, her posture was so reminiscent of our day together at the park that, despite my attempt to focus, I was mentally transported back to those verdant fields, sharing the midday sun with my bronze goddess…

I'd been staring for so long without pause, so lost in the memories of her skin lit with solar radiance and her chestnut eyes looking so deeply into mine, that I hadn't realized that she had noticed my attention, turning to look at me, until, all of a sudden, she was gone, and a collective symphony of squeals and giggles was left in her wake, as Brittany drew her by the arm toward the carousel Santana had promised to let her ride. The blonde, mounting a sunshine yellow unicorn with childish grace, insisted that Rachel accompany her on the pale pink pony at her side. Santana, despite her staunch protests, was coerced to join, defeated by Brittany's puppy dog eyes.

Refraining, shaking my head and stepping away when Brittany begged me to join, I was content just to watch them—as I continue to do now, lingering just a foot or two away from their merriment, following their languid, centripetal path with my eyes.

Santana is busy pretending not to have fun, but there she is, leaning against her customary onyx-hued mare, arms crossed over her chest, lips twitching upward despite herself; Brittany is rocking excitedly back and forth on her unicorn, cheering it onward; and, next to them both, Rachel, my bronze goddess, all dark, lustrous hair and silken skin and perfect, lush lips curved upward into a smile and those deep-reaching chestnut eyes glancing every now and then towards me, melting into me, searching me, reading me…

Off in my own world, a new category of thought strikes me altogether. I realize, suddenly, how utterly _amazing_ it is to see my two best friends and the girl who owns my heart and soul talking to one another, laughing together—riding a child's carousel together, like the bitter past that they and I share has been blown like a dandelion into the wind. It's… unreal. _Beautiful_. It's strange that the three of them are getting along—or, more accurately, that Rachel and Santana are getting along, since Brittany can befriend just about anyone, as long as they have a soul—but it's literally a dream come true. Seeing them together without a shred of tension or animosity between them, I almost can't believe it—but I do my best not to jinx it. It's too much of a miracle to ruin by overthinking the details.

As I watch them, a subtle tug in my chest reminds me just how much I've missed Santana and Brittany over the past few months. We really had been the best of friends, once upon a time. We were good to one another, in our own, twisted kind of way. If we needed anything, we were always there for each other, no matter what. We weren't a trinity without reason; we were invariably connected.

Though Santana has been Brittany's close friend, protecting her, being there for her much longer than I have, once I was in, I was in. It was difficult at first, earning Santana's trust, but I crawled through the glass, walked through the fire, made her believe me.

Brittany and I met in a dance class a couple of years ago, just before I'd transferred to McKinley. She and Santana have been best friends since they first shared a hiding spot on the playground during a game of freeze-tag in elementary school. They'd been together for years before I had even met them. When Brittany first set her sights on me, pursuing me as a friend, I wasn't too quick to get close to her, always a little wary, because, in the back row of the audience at every dance recital we performed in, I'd seen a young, irritable Latina, whose only smiles were directed toward my fellow blonde, and, after hearing her verbally tear into a girl who had accidentally knocked Brittany off balance once during practice, I'd been set on eluding the Latina's detection for as long as I could. Despite all my effort, Brittany had other things in mind. She was intent on the three of us becoming best friends—"like the Three Buccaneers!" she'd said one afternoon, beaming at us both—and she often dragged me into Santana's line of fire when I wasn't ready for it.

The ease with which Brittany and I had connected irked the Latina to no end, and it caused more than a little friction between us in the beginning. I didn't blame her for it. I was an outsider, and she was wary of people who didn't know Brittany, too accustomed to the dismissive reactions that others were so quick to give. Even then, naïve as I was—though she would never admit it, and the subject couldn't be broached without the risk of bodily injury—it didn't take much scrutinizing to see that the Latina was in love…

After a while, when it became clear that Brittany was unwilling to let me go, and that I wasn't going to treat her the way that she had been treated in the past, the tension between Santana and I began to lessen. Eventually, we began to bond, and we reached the understanding that's held us together ever since: we both recognized how special Brittany was and how lucky we were to know her.

When we reached the top of the social pyramid… it was a game of faces. While our worst was reserved for anyone who had ever even looked at her wrong, our best was always reserved for Brittany. She's been the moral compass that kept us from going too far.

So many complications came between us last year that we were too occupied with our own troubles for games or playing around, or for even really just talking to one another like we used to… We haven't been close enough to do anything like this in a long time—but it feels good to revert to old habits, to spend time with them again. I've barely gotten to see either of them over the summer, due in large part to my own self-imposed solitude, and I'm realizing now, with heavy clarity, that I miss the solidarity of our trio. I don't miss our role in the social stratosphere of McKinley, or the things we did there—or the things we did to _get_ there—just being close to them.

Once the carousel has slowed to a stop, like the elongated transition of a pirouette, I notice vaguely that Brittany leaps, as graceful as the natural dancer she is, from her unicorn and marches the two brunettes by her side off of their miniature horses. She nearly drags Santana along by the wrist, showcasing how deceptively strong she is, and heading off to somewhere unknown in the distance.

For a moment, I stare after them, wondering what they've been feeling the past few months that I've had my head up my ass.

_Do they miss me? Have they even noticed how far apart we've grown? Are they sad? Hurt? Angry?_

They continue to grow further and further away while I remain still, immobile. I'm coaxed from my thoughts, however, as Rachel takes my lethargy as her cue to approach, sidling up next to me with a small grin. Her gaze is magnetic, drawing my eyes toward hers, inviting me in. She guides her index and middle fingers through my foremost belt loop, capturing me, subtly, effectively, tugging until I take the hint and force my legs into motion, following along. As she leads me forward with her astounding finesse, the familiar earth-shattering jolt races up my spine, and I trail hazily behind her, lured by the chocolate radiance of her eyes as they gaze back at me.

Before my mind can recalibrate itself to the present conditions, Rachel has shifted closer to me, matching my step, her arm looped through mine as we cross through the entrance and venture into the dimly lit interior of _Spin_, the mall's single dedicated music retailer. Why Brittany decided to lead us here, when modernity has turned each of us toward digital albums rather than discs, I'm not sure, but I don't have any reason to complain until the genuine warmth of Rachel's arm around mine fades away. Brittany has begun trekking to the other side of the shop, toward the Pop and R&B section, chatting exuberantly with Rachel in tow, much to my disappointment.

Although she's allowing herself to be pulled along without resistance, Rachel turns back to me, searching for my eyes. She offers me a small smile and her bell-like laughter, a small comment on Brittany's high spirits. "I'll be right back," she promises.

I can only nod in response. My throat is too tight to verbalize a reply. For her benefit, I force my lips upward into a smile.

For a moment, I remain still, listless, lost, seemingly without purpose—yet, lumbering to my rescue, as she's made such a habit of doing, Santana, much in the same predicament as me, nudges my shoulder with her own and heads off in the opposite direction.

I follow her without comment, allowing her to take the lead. We both need the distraction. Wandering the rows, treading just steps behind, I study her posture as she peruses the stretch of CDs at our side. She flips through the titles with apparent boredom, but I can't help noticing that she seems quiet, more reserved than usual, and while she makes a show of looking through the CDs, even retrieving a few to glance over the back cover, her eyes are drawn more often across the room, to Brittany—much like mine are, glued to Rachel.

Inspecting a jeweled case with practiced nonchalance, Santana reallocates my straying attention. "Alright, Q," she says, as though this conversation has been underway for a comfortable duration. She gazes at me pointedly, but her snarky tone is absent. "Spill."

Unnerved by the implications of her gaze, coupled with such a dangerous word, I pause. Santana has no qualms bluffing about the things she knows and the things she doesn't know—and she has used the technique to get an abundance of forbidden particulars out of me many times. _She can't possibly know anything_, I assure myself, swallowing my apprehension. _She's playing me. She noticed that I was blushing when Rachel touched me earlier, and now she's just fishing for gossip, waiting until I out myself and spill my guts. _

Despite the fact that I know her well enough by now that I can literally _feel_ her gambits, her demeanor is eerily convincing.

Still, I play oblivious. Turning to flip through a stack of clearance CDs, I emphasize my ignorance with a shrug. "Spill what?"

I don't even have to look to know that her eyes have narrowed—I can feel it. She props her hip against the shelf at her side, with a half-beat of airy silence, crossing her arms over her chest. "All the dirty deets," she finally supplies, her impatient gaze a concentrated photon beam against my skin. She cocks her head. "You gots 'em, and I wants 'em." While her tone is clear, the bravado she displays is flimsy, and I ignore it, thinking it false, until she effectively assassinates my composure. "I know you're diggin' on the diva."

The shock of hearing her say it out loud is worse than I expected. My heart palpitates violently.

I nearly trash the row of CDs that I've been looking at, stricken, flailing in my shock. "_What!_"

With a speed that could surely give me whiplash, I wrench my head to look at her, terrified.

_Oh, God. Oh, God. She does know. How does she know? Why does she know? What if she tells—?_

"Damn, _loca_," the Latina murmurs, reaching out with both hands to catch the CDs that threaten to fall from the shelf. She catches the most wayward of the bunch, crouching swiftly, pinning them with her forearms against the wooden structure that held them, while I struggle against my paralysis to grasp even the cases closest to my anesthetized hands. "Little help here!" she hisses.

I jump at her voice. From across the store, a platinum ponytail peeks above a distant shelf, and molten chocolate eyes seek us out. Hastening to assist Santana—and to avoid the inquisitive stares burning into me—I duck my head, my face an igneous mask of heat. It is a difficult battle, retrieving the CDs when my hands tremble so visibly, but I manage to help the Latina get a reasonable grasp on the lot of them, and help her thrust them back into the makeshift organizers that they'd been precariously settled in before.

Shaken, I can't even find the words to apologize for destroying the set-up in the first place.

"_Casi me dio un ataque al corazón_," Santana grumbles, complaining about it under her breath—though I could literally throw the words back in her face, if my reaction serves as any indication. With her arms braced against the shelf, she shakes her head warily, but glances in my direction after a moment and sighs, able to sense my lingering distress. She softens her tone, straightening her posture to face me. "Chillax, alright? None of the gleeks know about your girl crush. Your not-so-secret is _salvo conmigo_." She crosses her heart with her thumb, a joke reminiscent of the earliest days of our friendship, a symbol of our dedication to honoring each other's complete confidence. Regressing to bravado, she shrugs. "As a pitifully repressed lady-lover myself, I just happen to know one when I see one."

My brain refuses to wrap around the idea, rebelling. _It's not possible_. "You— But I I shake my head, and though I do my best to keep breathing, I feel as though I'm hyperventilating, without an oxygenated reprieve in sight. _How could she know? _"It's—"

Santana raises an eyebrow, daring me to deny what is so apparently and painfully obvious, and I realize, for all my floundering to convince her otherwise, that I have no choice but to surrender and admit that she's right. _How—? Why didn't I see this coming?_

Defeated, the tight fist of trepidation in my chest finally releases. Sensation returns to my limbs in pins and needles, reestablishing healthy blood circulation, and I exhale a heavy sigh, allowing my lungs to relax as I fit the last CD that I've been clutching into place. I can't find the poise, or the aplomb, to lift my head to look at her, but I make an effort to reply, and I'm distantly proud that I can still articulate my thoughts with nominal eloquence. "You're not going to mock me about the unmitigated irony of this situation?"

"I'm over it," she says, and, with a shrug, she dismisses the comment, taking hold of her latte once more—which had been placed safely off to the side during the chaos of our disc-catching escapade—and assuming the picture of nonchalance. "Just glad you finally got over _yourself_," she continues, fixing me with a pointed look, "and accepted the fact that you literally _couldn't_ hate that girl, even if she single-handedly trashed your reputation, ran over your new puppy, and put you in a full body cast for the rest of your life."

Something in the pit of my stomach—the final remnants of my dignity, maybe—twists uncomfortably, and I gape at her, silenced, contravened. I can feel for myself that my shock is plain, painted in neon across my face, but Santana is entirely nonplussed.

"What—you really think I didn't know?" she asks. Though rhetoric whittles her permissive tone to a point, her gaze is laced with panache, incredulous, subtly snide. "Come on, Q. I can turn a blind eye to things damn well, but that doesn't mean I'm actually blind."

My throat tightens, impeding my compulsion to swallow against my discomfort. _Talk about a verbal assault…_ _Harsh, San._

I drop my eyes, turning back toward the shelf, and, to avoid the inevitable task of looking back at her, I occupy myself by picking at a strip of tape clinging to the lacquer of the wood. Guilt is quick to follow. She's right. If anyone could have seen through my thinly veiled hatred and cruelty, coming to understand that they were merely pretenses designed to disguise my aberrant love for McKinley's very own victim zero, Rachel Berry, it would have been Santana. The shame of underestimating her weighs heavily in my chest, and I shake my head at my own selfish naivety. _No wonder she's distant. _The silence lingers between us, palpable in the dimly lit aisle.

"How long have you known?" I finally ask, unable to lift my eyes, fretting with the tape.

When she answers, her voice is flat, but not unkind. "You don't want me to answer that."

_Should have seen that one coming, Fabray._

I close my eyes briefly, a halfhearted attempt to regain my composure. "That long, huh?"

"It was literally painful to watch, Q," she says, and, finally, the enmity that laced her tone vanishes. "Like attempted suicide—you know, the kind that _fails_, meaning you have to try again." She cocks her head at me, giving me another of her infamous pointed looks. "Picture the final sequence in the bathroom of the original _Saw_," she commands, "but multiplied over, like, two years."

_Such prose_, I remark idly in the cavernous silence of my mind._ Her aptitude for aggrandizement __**still**__ astounds me._

Cringing visibly at the analogy—though grateful for the reprieve her intentional exaggeration fostered, nonetheless—I lift a single hand as a symbol of my nauseous surrender, nodding emphatically to make it clear. "Emblazoned in my retinas, Captain Hyperbole."

She shrugs, relenting, but I can see that she's amused by my sensitivity. Her lips are turned up in a smirk. "Just tellin' it like it is."

Even though my emotional rollercoaster has yet to cease spiraling, I can't help allowing a subtle smile in return. I drum my finger and thumb against the shelf below, shaking my head, before searching out her gaze again. "Why are you so cool with this?"

I expect to hear a sigh, the type of elongated, obnoxious puffs of air that Santana has perfected over the years, or perhaps a guffaw of laughter, a loud crow of mirth—but I get neither. Even more surprising, she speaks without the slightest hint of a grimace or scowl. "Berry ain't so bad," she admits, in the most benevolent tone I have ever heard her use in regards to Rachel. "Loud," she adds, without apology, "but I can appreciate that. I am too. Hardheaded, but, _Dios vence me_, if she's not on point—most of the time. She knows who she is, and she doesn't apologize for it." Pausing, she catches my eye. "That takes some real _agallas_, Q—we both know that."

It strikes me that I should be stung by her last comment, at least subconsciously; it was a transparent insult for both of us. Instead, I'm so awestruck that she has admitted her respect for Rachel's personality that I let it pass. While I'm trying to wrap my mind around the fact that she just agreed that she and Rachel Berry are similar, that she just admitted to thinking that Rachel is brave—braver than each of us, anyway—she herself utilizes the silence as an opportunity to gaze across the length of the shop. Her arched brow furrows.

"Besides," she murmurs, her voice low, nearly soft, "we can't help who we want to be with."

I don't need to look in order to see what has diverted her attention, yet I raise my eyes anyway to gaze at our counterparts, the two of them comprising a blonde and brunette duo that mirrors our position across the room. Though I can't hear them from so far, I know Rachel well enough by now to recognize the signs of her laughter: the tint of her cheek, the catch of her diaphragm. She bobs her head faintly along to the music that resonates within the provisional headphones she's holding up to her ears, while Brittany performs a silly dance, seemingly acappella, in front of her, something quick, with embellished swagger, that makes them both smile.

_If things had been different, _I remind myself, _you could have been living your life like __**this**__ for the past two years…_

In the aftermath of that thought, I'm shamed into picking at the tape again. _That comment wasn't about you_, I remind myself.

"This whole thing with Britt has you really messed up, San," I finally say, tempering my voice, and I spare her a sideways glance. It doesn't matter that, in this particular situation, it might be best just to let the topic drop. We haven't had a serious conversation in far too long. I certainly have enough problems on my own hands, but if she's willing to talk to me, I'll gladly put them aside to listen.

For an instant, she looks vulnerable, in a way that I'm not accustomed to, raw, like dealing with the words physically peels back a layer of her skin. "Immersion therapy," she jokes, without an ounce of humor in her voice. "Into the fire, right? You have to try not to drown before you can learn to swim." She pauses for a moment, inhaling, contemplative; the moment drags on, seemingly frozen, and she holds the captured oxygen in her lungs, letting it linger, thicken, diffuse, without exhaling. "We talk now," she says, finally, after a prolonged beat. "It makes me think, you know? Clears things up. Slows me down. Makes me want to change."

The familiarity of her words is eerily palpable, but I almost have to smile at the irony. _You're stealing my lines, Lopez._

Before I can blink, she shifts back towards the sway of her attitude. "Not like I'm about to quit speaking my mind; I'm still HBIC since you've stepped down from the throne, but," she pauses to heave a great sigh, shaking her head, "damn all that emotional voodoo she's working, 'cause it's brainwashing me into thinking that it's alright to feel something—and to put all the carnage on display."

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at herself, as though the notion is entirely insane. I get where she's coming from. Being top-of-the-pyramid Cheerios, Santana and I had learned early on that, at McKinley, if you wanted to take control—and keep it—taking the route of humanity wasn't an option. Talking about your problems, betraying your emotions, showing empathy were signs of weakness. Nowhere is the golden principle of "kill or be killed" so plain as in the halls of Lima's very own William McKinley High School. The very first lesson a WHMS Cheerio learns is that, in order to don the Titans' red and white, she must shed her faith and her clemency.

By some miracle, Brittany never got that memo. As emaciated as our souls became, even when and Santana and I were reduced to bitter shells, Brittany remained a beacon of our final hope, continually reminding us that our humanity wasn't entirely lost. In her own way, she kept us sane; she found our weak spots, only to nurture them, tend to them—but there persistently remained, and still remain, subjects that Santana was entirely unwilling to broach, points that were moot, unable to be confronted, despite Brittany's effort.

Given the Latina's confession, it makes me think that things have begun to change on that front, and, proud, I smile to myself.

We got lucky, Santana and I. No matter the magnitude of her recalcitrance, Santana has Brittany by her side to keep her grounded, carefully unstitching the razor wire threads that have tangled her heart and sewn her lips into silence. As for me… I'm starting to think that maybe, just maybe, Rachel might be the one to do the same, to wash away the final vestiges of my masks, to ease away the chains of religion, vanity, and social expectation that have been keeping me, to set me free, to render me Prometheus unbound…

I pick up where Santana left off, shaking my head as well. _Who would have thought?_

"I know exactly what you mean, San," I reply, as I laugh under my breath.

She grins, but her expression hints that she's done sharing; it's my turn to come clean. "So, what's the deal with Berry anyway?"

Taking a breath, I allow myself a moment to think. "I don't know, really," I say, unable, at first, to articulate the complexity of my feelings on the matter. "We've been talking to each other for a while, texting sometimes." Hastily, I amend myself, "Well, all the time, really…" I glance at Santana out of the corner of my eye, attempting to gage her reaction, unable to pierce her careful neutrality. "She invited me to dinner with her dads the other night," I continue, floundering, searching for something will convey how significant these last few days have been. Finally, I admit, "She's been… amazing. Every now and then, she tells me secrets, little intricacies that she's never told anyone before—even though I have done nothing but exploit her differences for so long." I swallow, my chest tightening, a dull ache rising within me. _Right…_ "Things have been… great," I murmur, "I mean, considering everything, but… I just can't…"

_Can't…? Make things better? Give her more? _I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore.

Santana urges me to continue. She raises an eyebrow, gazing at me expectantly. "You can't—what?"

_I can't do anything._ "Nothing," I mumble, drowning out my voice with my own laughter. "Nothing."

_Nothing—I'm doing nothing. I'm letting her push our past to the side, just so __**I**__ don't have to face it._

With her eyes fixed across the room, giving me time, Santana adopts a soft, anodyne disposition. "You love her, don't you?"

It's not a question that I have to consider in order to know the answer. _Of course._

"I…" My voice ceases to sound before I can even begin to explain, choked off by the rush of emotion that overcomes me. I don't think I have ever said the words out loud. I've thought the sentiment so many times that it's almost second nature, but never once have I voiced it to anyone other than myself. Even when I'd gone to Ms. Pillsbury last year, quite literally emptied my heart to her, told her about _everything_ that I had been feeling—even though she _knew_ what it all meant, I could never once bring myself to say the words. It was so obvious, even without verbalizing it. Now, even though trying to convince myself that I am not absolutely head-over-heels in love with Rachel Berry—as I used to—would be futile, it's still difficult for me to find my voice. The words are strained and my voice is low, weak, when I finally speak. "It hurts, San—how much I love her. To know that, at any moment, I could lose her…"

_To know that, for now, I have her, even though I haven't done anything to deserve her…_

Santana sighs, shaking her head once more, weary, almost as if she's tired. If she's really known about my feelings for Rachel for as long as she promised, it comes as no surprise that her fatigue is visible by now. "_¿Qué vas a hacer?_" she asks softly.

_Really, Fabray—what __**are**__ you going to do? Anything? Are you ever going to do anything __**at all**__?_

"I don't know," I reply, defeated. _I don't know what I'm going to do—or if I even can._ "I don't have an ultimate agenda."

_I'm just waiting, letting everything happen, trying not to get my hands dirty… like I always do._

Santana's incredulity is suddenly fierce, threatening. She raises an impeccably arched brow. "Q."

_Does it even matter that I __**want**__ to apologize—when I'm doing absolutely nothing about it?_

"Seriously, San." Back to fretting with the tape, I finally tear it from the wood. "There's no plan."

"You're seriously telling me that you're _not_ trying to get her to fall in love with you?" she demands.

_What—? _I freeze on the spot.

_No, that's not—_

My face displays my own incredulity. "Of course I'm not—"

When she speaks again, her words are rapid and sharp, heat-seeking, piercing; they lodge themselves into my chest like irradiated shrapnel. "Okay, first, I thought you were getting smarter, but, apparently, _usted sigue siendo un idiota_. Second—why the _hell_ not?"

Immediately on the defensive, stung, my guard goes up. "I can't do that, S," I reply, unyielding, and my tone hardens, despite my efforts to remain calm, to keep from reverting to old habits. I hold her incensed gaze, steady. "Not now, not after all that's happened."

"_Usted está tan ciego_," she scoffs, shaking her head, glaring without apology. "Are you ever going to stop lying to yourself?"

The igneous heat of anger floods my face, darkening my pale skin; I can feel it burning. _Thanks for finally spitting it out, S. _

I don't want to admit that she could be right, that I could be lying to myself. My threshold of irritation has risen to meet hers—one of the many reasons that it isn't healthy for the two of us to be left alone when we're arguing. We never get anything accomplished. It just keeps escalating, building like a flood, fueling the fire, and it doesn't stop until we're separated or irreparably damaged.

The last thing I want is to fight with her. We've just started talking again, just broken the first honesty barrier. I don't want to ruin the little progress that we've made, but I have no choice. The anger is corrosive in my chest, eating its way through the tissue, toxic.

"How do _you_ get off criticizing me about denial?" I ask her, though I don't expect an answer. "You don't even I stop myself.

I don't know exactly what it was that I was going to say, but something—my infantile conscience, maybe—warns me not to say it anyway. I swallow the shapeless words that linger like acid on the tip of my tongue. _I don't want to be that person_. Regardless, the fire has yet to leave Santana's eyes; her mouth is set in an impenetrable sneer, the contemptuous curl of her lips, the promise that she's not wounded—the lie that says my words haven't touched her at all. While I half expect her to slap me, or tackle me to the floor, she does neither. She remains eerily still, casted, yet jagged, like a Goya composition of oiled paints, her mahogany eyes burning into mine.

"Q, if you don't do anything," she says, retaining that uncanny stillness, her voice strangely flat, "for the rest of your life, you are going to regret the fact that you never tried to be anything more. Two years of _obsession_ doesn't disappear when you become friends."

She's right—of course, I realize that she's right. Even when she's angry and irrational, she's usually right.

It would literally kill me to have to see Rachel in a relationship with someone else—now, especially, when we're so close.

"I can't take that risk, San," I say, and all the anger has drained from my voice. I'm losing the will to argue. "I can't. She'll never feel that way about me." Swallowing tightly, I will myself to continue; the words are halting, difficult to speak. "Telling her how I feel won't accomplish anything." Santana's jaw twitches, her eyes narrowing, but, for the moment, at least, she doesn't interrupt me. I pass an unsteady hand through my hair, and it takes everything I have in me to voice my concerns without breaking down. "What if I freak her out? What if—?" _What if she decides to leave? _"Now—after I steel myself. "I can't lose her. I wouldn't survive losing her."

Having gotten so close to her, close enough that she's so willingly sharing her time and _herself_ with me… I would never recover.

Santana nods once, almost as though she's acknowledging that I made a valid point, yet her eyes bear into mine, unforgiving. "Let me tell you a little something about Rachel Berry." The tempered monotony of her voice has vanished; her anger is apparent. "You've got your head so far up your ass, I'm not sure you've noticed. She's put up with a lot of shit, Q—especially from you."

My skin turns to ice. Her metaphysical blade is an arctic shard pressed to my chest, waiting for the blow to drive it through.

It's disconcerting remembering those days—waking the ghost of the part of me that I never want to revisit again—harrowing, gut-wrenching with a resonance of visceral sickness, and a knot of discomfort begins to form in the pit of my stomach at the thought.

_That person is not me_, I remind myself, recounting the days that have led me here, recalling how far I've come. _Not anymore._

Santana doesn't stop—doesn't seem to notice my distress. "She's dealt with all of your petty, misplaced hatred. She's suffered for months —for _years_, Q—two _years_—under your constant torment and all the shit you've gotten other people to do."

I clutch the bracelet that Rachel gave me tightly, desperately, reminding myself that things between us aren't like that anymore.

_Things have changed. We're better now. We're past that—I—I'm past that._ _I'm not like that anymore._

_I'm not that person. I'm not that person_. My breath comes in sharp gasps, fighting against the crushing pressure seizing my ribs.

"She's swallowed down all of your insults—insults that even _I_ would have had a hard time coming up with on my own—"

_Why?_ I want to ask. My eyes sting against the wall of unshed tears that obscures them. _Why are you doing this?_

Abruptly, Santana takes hold of my shoulder, holding me tightly, but gently, her fury dropping swiftly away as she continues.—and look where she is today, right now," she commands, and she gestures pointedly across the store, forcing me to look for myself, to where Rachel and Brittany are still looking through CDs together. I don't get her point immediately, but she continues. "She's inviting you over for dinner, introducing you to her parents, and cuddling up to you like you grew up in the same damn sandbox."

She tugs on my shoulder, urging me to look back to her, patient, waiting until I'm able to draw my aqueous eyes back to hers.

"Who the hell gets lucky like that, Fabray?" she asks, shaking her head. "You're going to tell me that doesn't mean anything?"

_What? What does it mean?_

Santana scoffs, closing her eyes in stifled annoyance. "That girl—God, I think she would forgive Satan, _si hizo galletas _and asked her nicely enough." With newfound sobriety, she finds my gaze again, and lowers her voice when she addresses me again. "Compared to everything she had to go through before this, I don't think telling her that you love her is what's going to send her running."

My tears blur her face, and I'm sure she can see them in my eyes, but I can't force them away.

My lungs quiver, but I can't start breathing. I feel like I've been punched in the chest, winded.

_She's right… What am I doing? I haven't even— I can't—_

The first lukewarm tear tracks down my cheek.

Santana's face softens, almost an immediate reaction. "Look —I'm sorry." She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. Though my vision is streaked, I don't miss the way her fingers tremble—a sign of frustration, anxiety, guilt? It doesn't give me any satisfaction to see that she's hurting too; it only makes the desire to fall apart all the more powerful. She shakes her head and breathes deeply through her nose, while I struggle to keep myself from crumbling entirely. "That was really low," she admits in a murmur. "Shit."

_It was the truth…_

Lifting her hand to my shoulder, guiding me, offering her support, she urges me to focus on her eyes. "Just… ignore the major bit of termagant I've been, and, please, trust me, Q," she implores, keeping her tone gentle, extending her previous apology. "If you want her—_really_ want her—you've got to stop playing it safe and go for it, before it's too late."

When I blink, another tear falls from the corner of my eye of its own volition, and the weight of gravity draws it along my skin.

Removing her hand, shaking her head, helpless, Santana continues, "You have to do something." She turns to look across the room, at the very girls who necessitated this conversation, with a sigh, swallowing an unknown emotion. "She isn't going to be there forever."

Though her words imply that she's speaking about Rachel, her eyes are on Brittany, and I have a feeling that she's talking more to herself than to me, now, but the message hits home in _my_ chest, regardless. Like she has been all along, she's right.

Even if Rachel never comes to feel about me the way that I feel about her—even if the past is too much for any romantic love, on her part, to grow for me—I can't allow myself to continue sitting idly by and letting things go on like this. As great as things are now, none of the troubles that haunt our past have been resolved. I haven't redeemed myself, and if our friendship is ever going to progress, whether into a relationship or not, I need to apologize, to be honest with her, to make an effort—anything. I just need to do something. Even if the only thing I can do for now is to be more forthcoming with my affection, I need to find some way to let her know what she means to me, how much I care about her, how sorry I am that things started out the way they did—no matter the consequences.

Granted, the consequences have the probability of being far more than I can handle, but I need to do _something_.

The sigh that escapes me seems to fill the aisle, lingering in the ambience like a wraith. My voice is thick with the tears that linger in my eyes, the ignominy that chafes my already raw throat. "_Estoy en tantos problemas_," I whisper into the silence.

At my side, Santana exhales the hybrid utterance of a scoff and a sigh. "_Usted está cantando mi canción_, _rubita_."

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><p>Note: This chapter seriously just kills me.<p>

Note: This trend of bipolarity is recurring, but I think it works for Santana and Quinn, given their current situations.

I hope everyone enjoyed it. Feel free to let me know. :)


	13. Learning To Breathe

Boy, this took forever. I apologize for the delay. Summer semesters are brutal, so I haven't had much time to update, but I've done my best to put this chapter together. If you're feeling a little out of the loop or a little confused by some of the elements of this chapter, check the notes at the end. That's all for now. I hope you all enjoy the update!

_(By the way! I've gone back and added dated headings to previous chapters, since some people have commented that it's hard to keep track of the chronological timespan. Also, after one of the last updates to the site, some of the formatting of the previous chapters got scrambled, so I tried to go back and fix most of it. The important stuff, anyway. Hopefully, it'll help. :D)_

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><p><strong>Thursday, July 14th, 2011<strong>

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><p>At this point in my fragile relationship with Rachel Berry, to say that I'm enamored by her would be an understatement. Being enamored is child's play. I was enamored when my parents conceded to take me to a live performance of <em>The Nutcracker<em> when I was twelve; I was enamored the first time I heard Claire Danes recite Juliet's soulful soliloquys. Certainly, at this point, I'm past enamored, and now into something much deeper. At this point, I'm fascinated, bewitched, beguiled, ensorcelled—completely and utterly enchanted.

How else can I legitimize the fact that I fawn over her while she's simply organizing papers?

When Rachel and I had returned to her house after our venture to the mall, I being too weak in the knees to deny her gentle request — "Would you like to come in?" — we spent a few brief moments chatting with Randy, discussing our escapades, before Rachel claimed me for herself and began to lead the way up to her bedroom. The velveteen carpet that lined the stairs felt familiar under my feet, and it filled my chest with an effervescent fizz of unhindered giddiness. I had been utterly floored by my fortune — that certain things in Rachel's house were becoming _familiar_ to me — and I would have stopped short just to marvel at my luck, if it hadn't been for her presence. Her eyes, cast back to me over her shoulder, lured me along after her.

She'd been telling me about the new music Brittany had introduced her to at the mall, just before Daniel met us in the hallway of the second floor, stepping out of the provisional office that he and Randy share. He greeted both of us with a smile, a kiss to Rachel's forehead, and a cordial hand outstretched to shake mine.

Asking us to wait, returning to his office for a moment, he bestowed upon Rachel a thin stack of papers, which he explained to me, the ever clueless blonde gazing at them in confusion, were a collection of files to keep on record about Rachel's volunteer work at the Youth Center over the first half of the summer. For the moment, I had been surprised, wondering how she kept up so many summer engagements at once, but soon found that it wasn't really surprising at all, because she's Rachel Barbra Berry, and she can just do that.

While Daniel continued to elaborate upon her achievements — all of which Rachel attempted and failed to hush, her cheeks tinged pink — she finally grasped my hand, begged the papers from her father's teasing grasp, and began drawing me away from his jocular commendations, toward her bedroom.

"Please, disregard all of that," she implored, once we were safely out of his earshot. "He and Daddy like to boast about me far more than they should." She laughed, that exclusively adorable self-deprecating laugh of hers that makes my heart patter against my ribs, and shook her head. "I boast enough for myself."

Then she turned to her desk to file away her volunteer paperwork, I allowed myself to take a seat on her bed, and I've been sitting here, gazing at her, wondering at her natural elegance, ever since.

Resting on the edge of Rachel's bed — which, I realize for the first time, is actually a very _large_ bed — watching her as she organizes and files the papers Daniel gave her into a folder on her desk, I'm completely content. In a way that I can only deem miraculous, for once, I'm not obsessing over my particular location, or the licentious connotations of an expansive bed in a bedroom occupied solely by the girl I'm in love with and myself. I'm not sweating over fantasies of what the silken duvet would feel against bare skin. I'm only watching her, allowing myself a moment to take her in, a minute to appreciate the simplicity of whatever it is I'm doing with my life, just for now, and bar the forthcoming complications from my mind.

It's only going to get more complex from here. Things are going to get so convoluted that I might never be able to have one of these simple moments with Rachel ever again; I might find myself imprisoned in the eternal continuum of difficulties that I'd always imagined I would, choked by heartache, moments in which I won't be able to breathe for fear that I'll shatter completely — but, at this point, it's necessary.

If I'm ever going to overcome my past, I have to deal with it. I can't just push it to the back of my mind and will it to dematerialize and erase itself and the scars it left behind. It has to be confronted.

It doesn't matter that I've understood all of this, to some degree, from the first moment Rachel and I had begun speaking after Nationals last year. Half of my epiphany, I know, is owed to Santana. Maybe I should feel bitter, a little cheated, that she pulled such vicious metaphorical punches, equivocally mangled my soul on the spot. Maybe I should feel angry — I don't. The whole ordeal was for both of us, I think. It was a call to action — and when have Quinn Fabray and Santana Lopez ever stepped down from a call to action?

It's not in our natures. We're too proud to back down, to admit defeat — or to admit that we're hurting, even when we are both raw, aching, despite the happiness that we find ourselves graced with. Even though Brittany had her pinky hooked snugly around Santana's and Rachel had her arm looped through mine as we wandered the mall; even though we all laughed, joked and retold stories over pizza — Santana's idea — in the food court; even though I looked at the three girls sitting around me and I felt my heart pounding in my chest because I couldn't remember ever wanting anything more out of life than to have them there with me; even when I couldn't breathe because I was laughing so hard, and Rachel's hand was on my shoulder, and I could see Brittany leaning into Santana, and Santana was gripping the edge of the table to steady herself — it was still as plain as day that we were both hurting, and I could only think that there was more I had to do.

I knew I had to break everything that I've built so sloppily, so I can piece it back together the right way.

Now, I don't know when the simple moments will come — if they will ever come. I don't know if there is any such thing as "simple" past this point. Is "simple" is even an option anymore?

Is there anything "simple" about bullying a girl you've loved from the first moment you heard her sing, and trying to make amends for insurmountable damage when she has every right in the world to hate you?

Does "simple" even exist when telling her why you did all the things you did might just kill you?

"I'm sorry about that," an angel voice murmurs, drawing me from my reverie, and I lift my eyes to look into hers. Melting beneath her shy smile, as she smooths her hands across her skirt, my heart throbs.

Tomorrow, next week, next month, I don't think there will be such a thing as "simple" — but right now there is, and I'm going to enjoy this moment while I can, because it might just be the last one I get.

For once, it's not an effort to hold her gaze. I shake my head. "Don't be," I assure her quietly.

This might not be the time to make my emotions obvious, but, now, there's such a greater reverence that I have, just being able to look upon her, so much awe at my own nonsensical luck, that I can't help it. I say 'Don't be,' but in my own words, I hear, 'I love you.' I wonder if she sees how readily I smile at that alone.

She takes a step in my direction, fluid, elegant, ever so graceful, and makes her way across the room. As she nears, her measured pace slows further, and her soft smile widens, her warm cocoa eyes brightening, as though something privately amusing has crossed her mind. My puzzlement must be apparent; she makes an effort to stifle her burgeoning grin, but forfeits the attempt before long and beams cheerfully instead.

She settles into picturesque stillness just out of reach, exuding all of the delicate beauty of the Venus de Milo — yet complete, whole, and utterly breathtaking. "You look so small right now," she confesses.

_I feel small, compared to you._

Still, I glance down at myself, searching for whatever made her say so. "Do I?"

When I lift my eyes to hers again, she tilts her head, one chestnut brow twitching upward, reflexive, and she laughs softly to herself. "It's a big bed." She lifts one shoulder in an arch half-shrug, playful.

Closer now, having traversed the remaining distance while my gaze was drawn away, elegant and silent, she slows and stills in front of me, not yet near enough to be in my personal space, but near enough to be within my reach, enough that the hem of her skirt nearly brushes my knees. My patellar tendons quiver.

'_Longing alone is singer to the lute…' _She fills my mind with poetry.

Her voice, when she speaks again, is light with humor. "Though it pains me to verbalize, I will concede that it is a bit excessive, considering my Lilliputian size." Even though I'm having an exceedingly difficult moment attempting to simultaneously process her proximity, humor, and literary allusion all at once, when she grins at me, my own mouth twitches upward into a smile without any cognitive exertion. "Superfluous, I believe," she continues, cocoa eyes bright, "even for you, the very exemplar of perfect proportions."

_The things you say, Rachel — you're killing me…_

I take a breath, forcing my heart out of my throat and back into the resounding cavity of my chest.

_The bed. She's talking about the bed — size, relative to body size._

_Talk about the bed — the excessive area of the bed. Superfluity._

It's true. Her bed is so large, dimensionally, the topmost mattress so far from the floor that, even though I'm sitting down and Rachel is standing, the difference in height between us is only slightly in her favor.

Laughing under my breath — from nervousness more than anything, maybe — I fix my gaze downward and smooth my hand over the downy amethyst comforter beneath me. My own bed isn't very different than this, a similar example of comfortable profusion; the proportions are roughly the same, only it's a little less lofty and much less purple. Raised by my parents, developing a taste for superfluity was natural, but it's an altogether different circumstance when it comes to my bed. As immature and infantile as it sounds, my bed is one of my favorite places to be, because no one can touch me there. The world doesn't exist there.

"I understand, though," I murmur, tracing the delicate stitching of the duvet. "It's comforting, knowing that there is something so vast, so strong, beneath you, ready to catch you, no matter how far you stray…"

_Like a giant security blanket — an Olympic expanded sixty-six- by eighty-inch security blanket._

Once I lift my eyes to look up at Rachel again, I realize that she's smiling _that_ smile, and I melt. Almost simultaneously, my skin grows warm. _Giant beds, Fabray. You're talking about giant beds and body sizes. What an opportune moment to be poetic. But her eyes are so soft and she's looking at me like — like —_

"I'm sorry," I mumble, muffled through my fingers, my hand pressed to my face. "That was dumb."

I try to catch my breath, close my eyes, rewind the past minute — to stop my palpitating heart and count to ten, fighting the panic, but I don't even make it to _two_ before Rachel recaptures my attention.

"Hey," she coos — _coos_ — that's the only way I can think to describe the way she sings the word to me — lifting her hand to mirror my own, and gentle fingertips guide my own away from my burning face. She beckons me to look at her, urging me to turn my face upward, and when my eyes meet hers, everything else disperses, and I dissolve into oblivion beneath the untroubled warmth that returns my gaze. "I know exactly what you mean," she says, soft, but certain, assuring. I'm transfixed simply by the way she breathes.

Fragments of a sonnet I once knew drift through my subconscious, wisps of rhyme that pulse and quake, dismantling me. '_I turn away reluctant from your light… a dazzled thing, deprived of sight…'_

Before I can catch my breath, fighting my struggling cardio-pulmonary system, she smiles, with a shake of her head so soft that I almost don't see it but for the feathery sway of her hair. "Silly Quinn," she says.

I have no idea what to do, what to say — if there is anything I'm _supposed_ to do or say.

My hand slips from beneath hers, falling to my lap, and I do nothing but gaze at her. What else can I do?

'_When I too long have looked upon your face… for me a brightness unobscured…' Rachel —_

She just keeps smiling at me, softly, sweetly, imbued with a secret comprehension that I don't share.

As the moment lingers, my questions form. _What is she thinking right now? What does this mean?_

_Why —? God, you're so beautiful… Do you have any idea what you do to me?_

Rachel's gaze shifts, briefly, from my eyes. She alters her touch to gently guide a lock of my disheveled hair — displaced when I'd tried to hide behind my hand — from my face, and her fingertips ghost my skin.

"Your hair is getting so long," she says softly, as she twirls a wisp loosely around her index finger.

I swallow thickly, my throat occluded by the hollow ache of surfacing memories. Familiarity brings me back to the night of our junior prom, the night that I broke completely — the night that Rachel put me back together. I still remember the delicate hesitance in her frame when she had given me tissues to dry my eyes; the fragile, insubstantial caress of her fingertips when she raised her hand to guide my curls behind my ear, so gently, so fleetingly, softly, as if she was afraid that I might push her away, or that I might break beneath her touch… I never could tell which; there might have been an equal chance for both to happen.

All I knew then was that, in that moment, whatever passed between us was all that I ever truly wanted. I wanted my future with Rachel to be affectionate, not abrasive. I wanted her tenderness and her compassion, not her fear and distrust. I wanted her to look at me like she cared, not like she was wishing me away.

Things are different now — not by much, but a little, and it's enough to shake me up. My determination to let things be, to keep things simple, falters. Is there even anything remotely "simple" about this?

There is one thing, one single simplicity, a singularity of truth that's not complicated at all — I love her. I love her, and that, to me, is simple. Loving her is as natural as breathing, as necessary as oxygen, as blood and water, as food. Loving Rachel is the only simple thing in my life — yet it's blockaded, surrounded, and oppressed by so many complexities and complications that I can't disentangle it from the chaos.

I'm trapped, bound within convolutions of my own making. Nothing about this can be simple.

As Rachel's fingertips brush my cheek once more, my skin burns, the blood in my veins surging.

_Does she remember that moment the way that I do? Does she think of that moment at all?_

It's coming to the time when I ought to speak. I've been silent for so long — haven't I? I've lost myself and lost touch with time. I don't know how long it's been since Rachel spoke to me. What should I say?

We were talking about beds, bodies, about hair — my hair — hair that she's still toying with, smiling.

_Breathe, Fabray_. _Say something. Hair — she was talking about your hair. Talk about your hair. Hair._

"It grows pretty fast," I say, finally, and a tremor shakes my voice.

"It does," she agrees, nodding, pensive, and — much to my overwhelming disappointment and relief — she guides the loose strands of my hair into place with the others, tucking them behind my ear, and lets her hand fall back to her side, neutral territory. "I was so surprised when you cut it last year, but I loved it."

My heart stutters, stumbles, flipping into a rapid succession of cartwheels in my chest. _Loved it…?_

"It's perfect, whether long or short," she clarifies, making sure to get the point across, holding my eyes, but then she shakes her head, laughing as she continues, "but I do miss the shorter length. Just a little."

_Haircut — check. _The words tumble from my lips, unbidden. "I'm thinking about cutting it again."

She grins at me, eyes bright, her kindled excitement apparent. "Really?"

_Yes, just now._ I nod, unable to speak any further. Honestly, it had crossed my mind once and I'd given it a brief moment of positive consideration, but I didn't come to any sort of decision. Now, it's an objective.

Before Rachel can make an attempt to respond, a knock sounds on the frame of her bedroom door.

Even though my seat on her bed allows for a clear view of the doorway, whereas Rachel's back is to the entrance, while she faces me, I'm not any more prepared for the muted intrusion than she is. I didn't notice Randy's figure in the doorway; auxiliary details in the background tend to disappear in Rachel's presence.

I flush as I meet Randy's eyes over Rachel's shoulder, nervous.

Rachel, however, turns to him with a ready smile. "Yes, Daddy?"

Randy returns the expression, and he doesn't seem to think it strange that we're so close to one another, talking in hushed voices, or that my face and ears are flaring scarlet. Leaning patiently against the doorjamb he speaks as if nothing is out of place. "Just wondering if you had any ideas about dinner, Princess."

Though I can't see her face, it seems that Rachel considers the question for a moment, cocking her head briefly to the side. "Nothing comes to mind," she replies, and lifts both bronze shoulders in a leisured shrug of nonchalance. "Other than a little additional company," she adds, with a brief giggle.

Over Rachel's shoulder, I notice that Randy's patient grin has grown wider, his eyes shifting to mine.

Rachel turns back to face me, a hushed entreaty visible in her eyes. "If you don't have to be home at any particular time," she says, "I'd love for you to stay and have dinner with us, Quinn."

I melt under her gaze. _Stay for dinner?_ _I'd stay to watch you brush your hair, Rachel._

"I won't torture you with another vegan meal," she adds, laughing at herself. "Daddy can make you just about anything you want — and Dad does steak, too, if you'd like. _Chez Berry_ serves _a la carte_."

She offers me a winning smile, like she has to convince me, but she had me at 'I'd love for you to stay,' and I'm only further sold by the way she refers to her fathers inclusively, as 'Dad' and 'Daddy' rather than '_my_ dad' and '_my_ daddy,' like she's including me, like I'm welcome to share them — like I belong here.

My heart throbs lethargically, and the smoothest response I can muster under the present circumstances is a breathy, half-strangled, "I'll have whatever you're having."

Rachel beams at me — literally beams. "Are you sure? You don't have a craving for anything specific?"

_Not in terms of food. _Swallowing the traitorous words on my tongue, I smile back at her. "Positive."

Her luminous chocolate eyes linger on mine for just a second longer, before she turns back to her father. "My inclinations are satisfied," she says to him, with a second untroubled shrug, in response, I'm assuming, to Randy's first question. I try not to think of the connotations of satisfaction as she continues. "We should let Dad decide tonight."

Randy laughs and pulls an exaggerated face, waving his hand swiftly in front of his throat, hushing her. "Don't let him hear you say that! All three of us will be up to our ears in squash before you know it."

Rachel laughs — music to my ears. I think I laugh too, faintly, the response triggered subconsciously.

Randy pushes off from the doorframe with a devious smile. "I'm telling him you said lasagna."

Chocolate locks dance around Rachel's shoulders as she shakes her head. "Daddy! You're so bad."

The slender man smirks, winks at both of us, still grinning roguishly, and disappears from the doorway. "Dan, honey," he calls out, his voice swallowed by the cavernous hallway as he distances himself from the bedroom. "Could you set some water out to boil? The girls are practically _begging_ me for lasagna!"

Rachel turns back to me, still bearing the exasperated smile she must have directed at her father, and, for an instant, my breath catches in my chest. I smile back dumbly, happy, even as my lungs cry for oxygen.

"I'm sorry about him." She shakes her head — an attempt to refrain from rolling her eyes, it seems. "It's so rare for us to have company other than colleagues or family; he gets a little too exuberant." Pausing, she takes a moment to hold my gaze, and her teeth worry her bottom lip briefly. "Is lasagna okay with you?"

Though I wonder vaguely how one would make vegan lasagna, since it's a dish based primarily on pasta and cheese, and I'm still entirely uneducated about the finer mechanics of soy, I nod. "That's fine."

She smiles, bouncing once on her toes, then rounds the edge of the bed, lifting her slight frame onto the elevated mattress. Gracefully, she adjusts her orientation to settle herself beside me; I hold my breath.

"For a moment, I was going to ask if I could join you," she says, catching my eyes with a playful smile, "but then I remembered…" She pauses, for effect, and nudges my shoulder with her own. "It's _my_ bed."

A hot thrill of excitement races down my arm. _It's not flirting_, I tell myself._ It's playful, platonic banter._

Still, I laugh. I can't help it. "Even if it wasn't, " I respond, "I think there's enough room for both of us."

Crossing her arms over her raised knees, she rests her chin atop her forearm, peering up at me, giggling. "I don't know about that," she murmurs, elflike, drawing out the words. "I'm feeling a little cramped."

_It's not flirting. It's not flirting._

"A California King might give you a little room to breathe," I say, offering her the smoothest grin that I can muster. I bury my hands in the comforter beneath my thighs. "Maybe you should upgrade."

She smirks then — an honest to goodness smirk. "Maybe I just have to get used to being close to you."

_Oh, god… __**Is**__ it flirting?_

All at once, my lungs seize tight, my heart stutters to a rapid halt, and my stomach hurtles into oblivion.

_Close. Close? Close — closer. I want to be closer._

My face flushes, a thick, vibrant heat, and I drop my eyes, unable to endure the intensity of her gaze.

_What can I even say to that?_

"Besides," she says, laughing, continuing before I have the chance to adequately make a fool of myself, "the strictly enforced Berry Doctrine forbids anything larger than an expanded queen."

I swallow my pulsing heart, clutching the comforter beneath my legs tightly, and I hope the maneuver is less obvious than it feels. I grip the blanket for dear life and cling to the verbal lifeline she offered me. "Big talent needs a big bed, right?" I ask, uncertain of my own rhetoric, attempting to catch my breath, and I will the smile I give her to be convincing. "You should make them a PowerPoint illustrating your logic."

She laughs at my suggestion, a wholehearted kind of laughter, the kind I've always wished I could elicit in her; she leans into me, and her exuberance, present in her shaking shoulders, jostles me, electrifies me; it exhilarates me, intoxicates me. Compulsion urges me to wrap my arm around her, to help settle her, to keep her balance, but I tighten my grasp on her comforter, bearing her sensual warmth against my upper body.

Still laughing, Rachel shakes her head against my shoulder. "I don't think they would fall for that one."

"Maybe not," I concede, softly, breathless.

I try to concentrate on the dense pounding of my heart, the rhythmic beat, something simple to clear my head — not the warmth of her body, the subtle weight of her reclining frame, the comfortable elation that I feel effervescing in my chest at the mere brush of her ear against my collarbone, her hair against my neck. I do my best to keep things simple, even though everything in me screams for me to complicate them.

_Wrap your arm around her. Lean your head against hers. Kiss her. Kiss her. Damn it, Fabray, kiss her._

Pressing my eyes closed, I hold my breath. _It's too soon. I can't — not yet. Not yet. I need more time._

I bite hard on my bottom lip. When I open my eyes again, I fix my gaze on my denim-mantled knees. It bewilders me, sometimes, how love can be so beautiful and so painful at the same time. Sitting here, next to her, feeling her, but not able to truly _touch_ her evokes a physical ache that resonates through my body — and it's in the midst of my disheartened musings that the sonnet I've been recollecting in glimmering fragments shapes itself in its full form, weaving its way through my subconscious, lyrical and resounding.

'_When I too long have looked upon your face, wherein for me a brightness unobscured save by the mists of brightness has its place, and terrible beauty not to be endured, I turn away reluctant from your light, and stand irresolute, a mind undone, a silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight from having looked too long upon the sun…'_

"Quinn?"

_Huh?_

I blink once, startled, and lift my eyes.

Rachel is upright once more, her arms wrapped around her legs, her hair pushed from her face, gazing at me softly. The remnants of laughter are gone, even though her smile remains, and I wonder just how long I was staring down at my knees, internally reciting poetry that was written a century before I was born.

Before I can apologize for my reticence, Rachel's voice soothes the silence. "Can I ask you something?"

A small jolt of nervous tension wakes in my stomach, spreading rapidly, but I nod anyway. "Of course."

She delicately toys with the hem of her skirt, manipulating the lacy fabric with deft fingers, smoothing it against her bronze skin, and allows herself a brief moment to worry her lip before she meets my eyes.

"I don't mean to pry," she murmurs, "but… earlier, when we were in the record store, I noticed that you looked a little upset. It almost seemed like you and Santana were arguing about something." Her voice is soft. "Were you?"

I inhale once and exhale as slowly as I possibly can. I'd hoped it would steady my nerves, but it doesn't help as much as I'd like. Now is my first true opportunity to make things complicated — the right way.

I'd thought to myself earlier, while we were still at the mall, that she might have seen the confrontation I had engaged in with Santana. Even from across the record store, Santana and I were most likely a spectacle to be seen, whether by strangers or best friends and the significant others of wishful thinking. During all the fleeting and transient moments that passed afterward, Rachel hadn't acted strangely about anything she had the opportunity to see, yet I know well enough by now how keen her intuition is, and it doesn't surprise me in the slightest that she had been able to piece together all the glimpses into a cohesive perception.

At another time in my life, I would have done anything to convince her otherwise; I would have made it a primary objective to conceal the truth, to hide my weaknesses. It seems strange to me, almost, that, now, I want to share this with her, to let her see more of me, to show her emotion that she's never seen from me.

For a moment, I wonder where exactly I should start my explanation, both of my hands — now freed of their confinement beneath my legs — fidgeting in my lap, my knuckles warm and pink, chafed.

"We were playing _Let's Give Each Other A Reality Check_," I sigh quietly, shaking my head. A moment passes, brief, fleeting, but heavy, before I can lift my eyes to Rachel's again, meeting her gaze. "It happens sometimes when we haven't seen each other in a while. We spend some time catching up on whatever both of us have missed, and then we tell each other, not so nicely, what we've been doing wrong with our lives."

Rachel is quiet, earnest studying my face, her own face turned up to mine, still resting delicately against her forearm, serene and unassuming. I do my best not to close up under her gaze, not to forge a mask that I can hide behind. It's easier with her, faced with her tenderness, her gentle receptivity; it takes less of a fight to repress my instinctual safeguards. Rachel has seen me at my worst, and she isn't afraid to look. It isn't in her nature to judge. So, I remain still and I let her look, and, even though it's difficult, I don't look away.

When she speaks, her lips bear the most beautiful frown. "It seems like you're still upset about it."

_How much do I tell her?_ I wonder. No matter how much I want to be honest with her, most of what San and I were arguing about is too much to disclose today. _What's appropriate for now? What has to wait?_

Pained that I have to rely on vague approximations in order to connect with her, I pass my hand through my hair. "She said something to me," I mumble, shifting, restless, "and it upset me a lot more than it should have. I almost said…" Breaking off into silence, I sigh. I can still remember the flash of violent censure I'd seen bloom across Santana's face; the sudden wrenching, sinking of my stomach, the nausea. "I don't know what I almost said, but it wouldn't have been anything congenial. I'm… ashamed of myself, I guess." It's a struggle to keep still beneath Rachel's gaze, even though I keep my own eyes pinned downward. I'm tense, interlocking my fingers, when I finally admit, "I feel guilty that I allowed things to escalate to that point."

Another moment of silence passes before Rachel's dulcet voice reintroduces a melody. "Everybody gets mad sometimes, Quinn," she murmurs, lulling, conciliatory. "That's nothing to be ashamed of."

When I finally garner the courage to lift my eyes and look at her, her teeth are fretting with her lip — in a way that makes me think she's nervous about continuing. I hold her gaze in an attempt to encourage her.

"I've seen you and Santana argue before," she begins gradually, allowing herself a brief moment toward further contemplation of her words, her delicate brow furrowed, "and from what I saw today — I hope you don't mind my saying this, or think that I'm intruding on your privacy in any way — it seems like you both have made great strides in talking things out rather than engaging in physical violence."

The memory comes back in pieces, fragments that I'd rather forget — a distorted vision of red and white fabric, clashing; the kind of noise that not even physical blows can drown out; the rapid heat of contact; my shoulder hitting perforated vents of the lockers; the unforgiving palm against my face; my own hand buried in coconut-scented hair, pulling; rough hands against my shoulders; my back colliding with the linoleum.

Guilt churns in my stomach, far from settled. It's only intensified by the knowledge that, as violent as it was, that fight wasn't nearly as brutal as it could have been. I was disoriented then; it felt like my entire life had begun to fall apart. My best friend, the only person I thought I could count on, was attacking me — and I deserved it. I'd been so dumbfounded, so completely unhinged that my first instinct, the first verbalization that fell from my lips, was so poorly founded that it's almost laughable, in retrospect.

"_You can't hit me,"_ I'd yelled. I was so stunned; it was the only thing I could say. It would have been as effective to say, _"You're being mean."_ Pulling her hair was the equivalent of politely asking her to stop. As terrible as it might have looked to anybody else, that fight was a playground tussle. If I had been in the right frame of mind, cognizant enough to fight back, both of us would have been on the fast track to the hospital. Slapping and pushing is far from Santana's worst; and I'm capable of much more than pulling hair.

Today, I think, if our altercation had escalated any further, we truly could have injured each other. If she had hit me — as much as I wish I could convince myself otherwise — I would have hit her harder.

Though it's difficult for me to hold Rachel's eyes — knowing all that I know, all that she doesn't know; as ashamed of myself as I am for knowing it — I force myself to keep my eyes on hers. _Immersion therapy._

Incognizant of my internal struggle, Rachel continues where she left off. As she speaks, she offers me a gentle smile. "You _almost_ said something," she says, as though reminding me of something I had forgotten. "You stopped yourself from saying something that you knew would hurt her." She lifts her shoulders in her shyest subdued shrug, unclasping her arms in order to reach for my hand with her own. A torrent of warmth rushes through my arm, surging toward my chest as she holds my eyes. "I think that counts for something."

My sunken heart is captivated by her confidence, buoyed, weightless.

It's only a minor affirmation of my attempted progress, but it's an affirmation nonetheless, and, coming from Rachel, it possesses inherent more worth than any psychiatric evaluation, so I'm going to take it.

I hope the smile I give her expresses the profound veracity of my gratitude. "Thank you, Rachel."

If it means something to her, it means something to me.

* * *

><p>Note: The first line of poetry Quinn references is from an untitled poem, recognized by its opening line, "Into the golden vessel of great song." The second, appearing in a poem that is untitled and recognized by its opening line as well, is from "When I too long have looked upon your face." Both poems were written by Edna St. Vincent Millay.<p>

Note: I apologize if the literary references are a bit abrupt. I'm attempting to ease them in gradually, because they're going to play a bigger part later in the story, particularly in regards to Quinn's character and future.

Note: The more comfortable Quinn becomes around Rachel, the more verbose her language is going to become, as she acclimates herself to truly expressing herself in Rachel's presence. It'll happen progressively as the story goes on.

So, there's that one. The next two chapters will be directly subsequent to this, occurring the same night. However, after that, the pace will pick up a little more, as chapters will skip a few days at a time and focus more on particular events in the story. Who knows how long it'll take to get there? I certainly don't, but I'm trying to do it quickly!

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. If you're feeling particularly loquacious, let me know what you thought. :]


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